


Protest Too Much

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [4]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Blood, Blow Jobs, Broken Bones, Bruises, Childhood Friends, Concussions, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Jealousy, Knives, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Smoking, Snow, Strength Kink, Sushi, Underage Drinking, Violence, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 62
Words: 160,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is nothing in the world Heiwajima Shizuo would like more than to be able to be a normal middle schooler, with normal hobbies, and normal friends, and a calm, boring, normal life." Heiwajima Shizuo is unusual by the time he's in middle school, and his new best friend is unlikely to help him fit in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dismissal

Heiwajima Shizuo is a legend.

He never wanted to be. There is nothing in the world he’d like more than to be able to be a normal middle schooler, with normal hobbies, and normal friends, and a calm, boring, _normal_ life. But he’s been doomed to abnormality since he was in elementary school and lifted the weight of his family’s refrigerator over his head in a fit of anger, and the older he gets the more dramatic his fits of fury have become. In elementary school it was fenceposts and the occasional storage locker; now it’s playground equipment, whole frames for swingsets or basketball hoops that tear out of the ground like flowers uprooted from damp soil when Shizuo gets his hands on them. He never means to cause the destruction he does any more than he means to shatter his bones over and over until his body finally catches up to the demands his strength places upon it; it just _happens_ , like the sun coming up over the horizon every morning. Something happens to set him off -- a passing insult about Kasuka’s hair looking like a girl’s, or someone bragging about getting away with cheating, or a delinquent bullying a transfer student -- and Shizuo snaps, like a matchstick in a normal person’s hand or a steel bar in his, and it’s not until the cause of his irritation and any accidental bystanders are lying unconscious or unwilling to move around his feet that the adrenaline that roars through him like a flame releases him to his own life again.

He hates it. He never wanted fame, certainly never asked for the notoriety that comes with the inhuman feats of strength he performs all unthinkingly in the midst of the blind rage that closes its grip on his body sometimes, that steers him through actions his calmer self would never even contemplate. But it’s notoriety he has, his name a byword in the school halls before his first year of middle school is half over, and after a poorly timed joke in his new homeroom led to a desk crashing through a window Shizuo is fairly sure his second year is off to an even worse start than his first.

 _You should join a club,_ Kasuka always tells him whenever Shizuo comes home bloody and bruised and seething with the irritation of another day’s worth of fighting off other students more interested in testing their own stupidity against his strength than in the friendship that Shizuo is far more interested in. _Meet people that share interests with you. Make some friends._ But Shizuo knows the way the other students look at him, sees the way his classroom goes silent and cringing when he walks into it, and he’s not interested in trying to prove himself worth a friendship he knows will disintegrate the first time he loses his grip on his ever-volatile temper. The only people who have ever put up with him are Kasuka himself and Kishitani Shinra, and the first is bound to him by the connection of family and the second Shizuo suspects to be lacking some fundamental core of sound judgment. There’s no way he’s going to be able to join an existing club, not when the members are composed of second- and third-years who know the name _Heiwajima Shizuo_ better than they know his face, who laugh about the risk of pissing him off and flinch when they see him close enough to overhear. The only students who would be willing to join a club with him even temporarily would be first-years, the unfamiliar faces who don’t know Shizuo from elementary school, who don’t know anything about him or his temper or the strength that goes with it, and even then they’re likely to leave as soon as they find out.

“Stupid,” Shizuo growls at his feet as he makes his way down the hallways left deserted by the end of the school day, glaring at the toes of his shoes as if they are personally responsible for the itch of irritation forming in his chest, for the frustration that always settles into him when he tries to find an escape from his current situation. No one would join a club with someone they don’t know, with some senpai who asked them out of the blue to form one. It’s pointless, it’s a stupid idea even to consider; but he can still hear Kasuka’s voice, that level _join a club_ like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and for just a moment he can see it, too, can imagine the comfort of company, of friendship, of someone who knows him well enough that even when anger takes over they might stay, might choose to spend time with him instead of flinching back to the sidelines of his life where everyone else lingers. It’s an alluring image, one that twists something sharp and painful in Shizuo’s chest; and then he lifts his head to look down the hallway, and as if on cue another student comes around the corner in front of him.

Shizuo doesn’t know him. The boy has dark hair, narrow shoulders, a downward tilt to his chin like he’s lost in his own thoughts; he barely glances up at Shizuo as they approach each other, offers only the barest flicker of attention over the other before he looks back down to resume whatever he was thinking of before. It’s a dismissal, a careless brushing aside of Shizuo as unimportant, as uninteresting on some fundamental level, and it stops Shizuo’s feet dead in their tracks. Adrenaline flickers through him, shock and disbelief warring inside his chest at that casual glance. Shizuo can’t remember the last time someone ignored him so completely, can’t recall the last interaction he had with someone so patently unaware of his reputation. It’s that reaction as much as the other’s uniform that marks him as a first year, the fact that he clearly doesn’t have the least idea or interest in who Shizuo is that indicates his naivete, and it’s that that opens Shizuo’s mouth to spill a “Hey,” at the dark of the other’s bowed head to draw his interest back to Shizuo’s face.

The other boy doesn’t look up. There’s no one else Shizuo could be talking to -- the hallway is empty but for the two of them in the space -- but the other doesn’t blink, doesn’t even lift his head to so much as glance at Shizuo. It’s as if Shizuo hasn’t spoken, as if the clear sound of his voice wasn’t enough for the other to hear. Shizuo frowns, tries again: “Hey,” louder, as the first-year continues to move towards him. This is no more effective than the first attempt, Shizuo’s voice going as unnoticed with repetition as in his initial trial, and Shizuo can feel the first prickle of irritation under his skin, can feel the beginnings of anger threatening at the base of his spine at being so obviously and completely ignored. He scowls at the approaching boy, his chest tightening on anger so the next call comes out as a shout. “ _Oi_.”

The first-year’s head comes up at that, finally, his attention pulled to Shizuo as his pace stumbles to a stop. It’s only reasonable; Shizuo is all but yelling in his face, with the gap between them so small it would be impossible to pretend ignorance. Their eyes meet for a moment, Shizuo’s glare catching against the other’s startled gaze; then the other boy blinks, the first bright of surprise flickering away so fast Shizuo barely has time to see it at all. His attention drops, skimming over Shizuo’s whole body in a once-over so brief as to be almost insulting, and then his mouth relaxes and his gaze comes back to meet Shizuo’s scowl with dismissal so abundantly clear as to do away with any question of _almost_.

“Were you talking to me?” the other boy asks, dragging the words long in the back of his throat as if they’re a taunt to action. His head tips to the side, adopting an angle of feigned innocence that comes nowhere near touching the level arrogance of his gaze. “Senpai.”

Shizuo’s throat tightens, his breath rushing out of him past the aching tension of his clenched teeth to spill into a hiss in the quiet of the hallway. His shoulders are hunching, rage is crawling up his spine with teeth and claws bared, ready to sink its grip into the back of his skull and take control of his actions for the next few seconds; it would be satisfying, Shizuo knows it would be, it would be a pleasure to crush his fist into the lopsided twist of the other boy’s mouth just to see the unfeigned shock that would hit his expression at the unexpected retaliation to his mockery. His fingers are curling in against his palms, his knuckles are tensing on the expectation of adrenaline; and Kasuka’s voice echoes in his head, _make some friends_ like an admonishment to the anger trying to bleed itself into Shizuo’s veins, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases to give way to the dejected slump he carried before. He looks sideways, away from the taunt behind the first-year’s smile and the suggestion of blood in the color of his eyes, out to the gold of the sun sinking to the horizon and the cluster of students by the gate, to the bright of conversation and the easy laughter that Shizuo wants so much he can feel the loneliness ache under his skin more acutely even than the weight of the violence everready in him. He takes a breath, and thinks of Kasuka, and when he says “Wanna start a club?” it’s with more resignation on his voice than hope.

There’s silence for a long moment. Shizuo blinks the sunlight from his eyes, and looks back, and the first-year is staring at him, his expression knocked into that blank shock more effectively than even a punch would have managed. There’s a crease forming at his forehead, confusion marking out a line between his eyebrows, and then: “Is this some kind of an entrance test?” with his tone far less certain now than he sounded a moment before.

“Anything you want,” Shizuo tells him, certain of the other’s refusal now but with too much desperation in the back of his mind to let this go. Tomorrow the first-years will start to know his name, and the day after they’ll start to recognize his face, and then it will be too late, and his chance to make new friends this school year will be lost as thoroughly as it was the last. “Biology, or karaoke, or sports.”

The other boy is still staring confusion at him. “You want to start a baseball team or something? I’m fast, but I can’t cover half the positions on my own.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes, sure now that the other boy isn’t listening to him at all. “There’s _already_ a baseball team,” he informs the first-year. “Whatever you want, I just need a club to join.”

The crease in the other’s forehead eases, his expression falling back into that dismissive understanding that sets Shizuo’s teeth on edge. “So you’re asking the first first-year you meet?” He tips his head sideways, his eyelashes fluttering dark on overdone apology. “Sorry, senpai, I have better things to do than sing enka with you.” His voice is syrupy, dripping with condescension over the false apology; Shizuo can feel his fingers drawing back into his briefly-forgotten fists, can feel the temptation of anger curling up his spine again.

The first year takes a step back, lifting his hand in a flourish of motion to match the flashing taunt of his lopsided smile. “Good luck kidnapping yourself some friends.” Shizuo’s mouth comes open, his breath rushing out of him in shock as sharp as if the other’s words carried the cut of a knife edge, and the other boy pivots on his heel and moves down the hallway, walking so quickly Shizuo barely has time to find the voice for “ _Wait_ ” before he’s around the corner and gone.

The conversation is over, Shizuo knows. The rush he makes to the corner is useless even before he makes the turn to see the other wholly absent from view; all the effort does is twist adrenaline hot in his veins and hiss frustration past his teeth as his hand comes out to slam so hard against the wall the tile under his fist cracks. Shizuo doesn’t look at the damage he did to the wall; he just turns away down the hall and moves back in the direction he came with the seething burn of irritation to take the place of his earlier melancholy.

He’s not sure that it’s much of an improvement.


	2. Titles

Shizuo doesn’t know what started the fight.

It’s a strange claim to make, when he’s in the middle of a brawl that requires him to crush his fist into the fragile give of cheekbones and noses, when he has the remains of a soccer goal clutched in a hold so tight he half-expects to leave fingerprints on the metal under his grip. But it’s the truth nonetheless, the fact of reality ever more unbelievable than fiction would be, that he has ended up -- again -- as the nexus for a fight he has little interest in and less involvement with. He thinks it was another gang, from what brief impressions he gets from the pattern of the jackets around him and the shocked horror on unfamiliar faces before he catches them with a punch or a swing of the metal pole in his hands and crushes the pattern of their features out of recognition even to their parents. He wishes it was an unusual occurrence, wishes this kind of unprompted fight were the exception in his life and not the norm; but with nowhere to go but home after school, and no cluster of friends to hide himself amidst, facing down a dozen or more gang members determined to prove their worth is unfortunately ordinary. The only thing for it is to give in to the flare of irritation at the back of his mind, to let the fire of his anger uncoil through his body and seize control of his limbs, to surrender to the adrenaline-fueled strength in him and let his own uncanny ability end the fight for him rather than attempting the ever-futile pursuit of trying to find a reason for it.

It’s over quickly. Shizuo doesn’t track the time passing -- there’s no space for such when he falls into the fugue of blind rage that takes control of his body and uses him to end fights someone else starts -- but by the time he’s done the sun is still above the horizon, still casting orange-gold light across the space around him like it’s the conclusion to some kind of action movie, as if there’s any point at all to what Shizuo’s just done other than the raw destruction that he hates. He can feel his lip throb with pain as the adrenaline in him fades, can feel the warm wet of blood trickling from his hairline and across his cheek, and he’s just feeling his breathing ease from the panting rush of combat into the strain of too-fast inhales in his chest when there’s a voice from over his shoulder, where there’s _never_ a voice, from an audience Shizuo thought long since relegated to the safe distance behind closed doors and second-floor windows.

“Did they do something to offend you?”

Shizuo turns instantly, the lingering remnants of blistering adrenaline jerking him into motion before his conscious mind has processed the words. His fingers tighten on the metal in his hand, his aching mouth forms itself into the scowl that is a warning no one ever heeds; but the voice doesn’t herald a new wave of attackers, doesn’t bring a flood of bodies for Shizuo to mow through like he did the first round. It’s just one boy, a middle school student so skinny that even at a glance he looks like no kind of a threat, and Shizuo’s anger eases into confusion as he watches his sole audience member approach with no hesitation in his stride.

“Or is violence just your preferred method of communication?” The boy’s voice is bright, sharp at the edges like a knife honed to a razor’s edge; Shizuo’s spine prickles with irritation, with some remembered frustration too far back for him to easily place, but then the other lifts his head, and meets Shizuo’s gaze, and his mouth drags into a lopsided smile that Shizuo’s adrenaline remembers far more clearly than his conscious awareness does.

“ _You_ ,” he growls, recalled frustration taking over his voice, because it’s the boy from the first day of school, the first-year who was so flippant about rejecting Shizuo’s offer to form a club. Shizuo recognizes the cut of his smile as much as the blood-red of his eyes, remembers the half-lidded taunt of his gaze as clearly as the smirking tilt of his head as he narrows his gaze into recognition.

“You should have told me you were the great Heiwajima Shizuo,” the other tells him. His smile is irritating, his voice more so; Shizuo can feel his expression tense on irritation as much from the barely-restrained laughter in the other’s voice as from the taunt of the adjective affixed to his name. “Were you hoping to get the best of an innocent first-year before we all learned what a monster you are?”

Shizuo can feel the insult dig in under his skin, can feel the hiss of _monster_ settle against his spine like it fits there better than the humanity he has tried to play at up until this point in his life. What anger was seething in his veins flickers and dies, guilt sweeping in to take its place with as much sour weight in his stomach as the lingering pain at his mouth. He looks away from the first-year, turns aside from the amusement at the other’s mouth and the shadow behind his eyes to look out towards the rest of the schoolyard instead, at the slumped shapes of his attackers arrayed around him like evidence for the other boy’s casual taunt.

“I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you,” Shizuo says, and lets the pole in his hand drop to the ground. It clatters by his feet, the weight of it rolling across the pavement before it comes to a halt, but his shoulders don’t feel any lighter in its absence. “I just need to join a club.” It’s absolute truth. Shizuo is offering the words as much for himself as for the other boy; there’s too much weight in the back of his head to easily explain, too much history written into the bruises on his knuckles and the blood on his tongue for him to voice before his audience inevitably panics and leaves.

“None of the others good enough for you?” the other boy asks. There’s laughter on his tongue, amusement audible in the back of his throat; Shizuo glances up at him, scowling at the teasing resonance that he can hear on the other’s lips, as if this is a joke, as if the daily struggle of Shizuo’s entire existence is some kind of elaborate comedy routine. The other boy is staring at him, his mouth still taut around that lopsided smile but his eyes dark with something else, something that runs deeper than easy laughter; Shizuo can’t get a read on it any more than he can interpret the forward hunch of the other’s narrow shoulders towards him. “Or do you really have a burning desire for karaoke?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps at him, the psychological hurt of the other’s jab drawing more pain into him than any of his attackers achieved during the fight. It’s not fair that the other can grin so bright when he’s throwing such sharp-edged words, not fair that he can be so dismissive of the thing Shizuo wants with a desire that only grows sharper with each day it becomes more impossible. He meets the other boy’s crimson eyes, clinging to the self-defense of a glare instead of letting the ache of hurt spill out to visibility over his features. “If you’re not volunteering you can just go away.”

Shizuo is expecting the other boy to laugh. There should be a cough of sound, a mockery of amusement ringing in his ears, and then Shizuo will growl and the first-year will flinch backwards and that will be an end of it, the relationship will die to a memory as rapidly as it formed. But: “I am” is what he hears instead, agreement so clear-edged and loud Shizuo can’t imagine for even a heartbeat that he misheard. Shizuo’s the one who draws back, confusion sending his shoulders tipping away as if from some unseen threat, and the other boy flashes his teeth in what might charitably be called a smile as he holds Shizuo’s gaze.

“I am volunteering,” he repeats, slowly, enunciating every syllable to crystal clarity as if Shizuo might not understand spoken language. His head tilts, his eyebrow angles up into unvoiced amusement. “Unless you’ve changed your mind too.”

Shizuo doesn’t know what to say. “What?” It’s not the other’s words he’s struggling with, or at least not the basic components of their meaning; it’s the meaning combined with the smile at the other’s mouth, linked to the tenor of apparent sincerity on his lips until Shizuo can’t make any sense of the whole. “ _Why_?”

The first-year’s mouth twitches, threatening the beginning of a smile as he stares down Shizuo’s gaze. “I misjudged you.” It should sound like an apology; coupled with the way his mouth twists into a grin it feels more like a taunt, as if the other has stolen something whose absence Shizuo hasn’t yet noticed. “You’re interesting after all, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo stumbles backwards as if he’s been hit, as if the other boy’s words are a blow far more effective than the useless impact of the fists and weapons that he can shrug off like rainwater. “ _What?_ ” he starts with, and then, hard on its heels, while the other boy’s grin stretches into the all-over sparkle of mania behind his eyes, while Shizuo struggles for coherent protest and finds only one point simple enough to put voice to: “Don’t call me _chan_ , I don’t even know your _name_.”

“Orihara Izaya.” The answer comes immediately, as instantly as if the other were just waiting the opportunity to volunteer this information, and he’s stepping forward, deliberately encroaching into Shizuo’s personal space in a movement so unexpected it leaves Shizuo reeling back before he has a chance for anything other than reflex to lay claim to his actions. The other boy is still smiling, his lips dragging into a lopsided smirk at his mouth like he knows some secret about Shizuo that he’s not sharing; when he offers his hand he makes it look like a threat, as if the casual angle of his fingers carries the danger of an open blade. “You can call me Izaya,” he continues, his smile going wider like he hasn’t noticed Shizuo recoiling from him, or as if it’s more encouraging than it is off-putting. “I don’t mind.”

Shizuo frowns. “You _can’t_ call me Shizu-chan,” he insists, but he’s reaching for the other’s extended hand anyway, drilled-in response too strong for him to ignore even for the aggressive impoliteness of the other boy’s introduction. The other’s fingers feel fragile under his grip, like they’re made of glass and likely to shatter if Shizuo presses too hard. Shizuo flinches from the thought, reflex suggesting that he draw his hand free before he accidentally does damage to the delicate bones; but Izaya’s hand is tightening on Shizuo’s, his fingertips catching and digging at the bruises on Shizuo’s knuckles, and Shizuo can’t pull his hand free without wrenching loose of the pressure of the other’s hold. He grimaces instead, his mouth collapsing into a frown as he braces his hold around Izaya’s hand as deliberately gently as he knows how, and when he speaks it’s with the simplicity of sincerity on his tongue. “I’m your senpai.”

Izaya’s mouth curves wider, as if he’s gaining traction on his pleasure from the sound of Shizuo’s voice. “My apologies,” he drawls, his smile still clinging to his lips to strip away any threat of sincerity from the purr of his voice. “Please forgive me, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo doesn’t know what face he makes. It’s a cringe, he thinks, reflexive retreat from the sound of that title layered over with so much mockery under it; but there’s a shudder of happiness, too, some deep-down appreciation that he can’t shake before it settles into his veins like it’s locking itself into his memories. The other boy’s hand is still clasped tight around his, fragile fingers weighting to pain against the bruises Shizuo has collected during the fight he can barely remember, but he doesn’t feel the hurt, not clearly. It falls in line with the weird heat humming up his spine, sparking to fire in his thoughts even as rationality fights for traction to insist that this is a joke, that he’s being teased, that he can’t react to the barely-veiled mockery in the other’s voice the way he might to a more sincere tone. It doesn’t matter; in the end he can’t resist the warmth that prickles up his spine, can’t fight off the burden of implied responsibility the sweeter for its source.

Shizuo’s never been called _senpai_ before.


	3. Normal

“Was it a gang?”

Shizuo looks up from the bathroom sink where water just this side of painfully warm is running across the bloodstained bruises over his knuckles. Kasuka’s leaning in the doorway, his gaze meeting Shizuo’s in the mirror without any of the bright interest that might characterize someone else’s attention. But Shizuo knows his brother, and he knows this is about as interested as Kasuka ever appears to be in anything, so he just sighs and looks back down so he can scrub the dirt out of the aching scratches in his skin.

“Dunno,” he admits, watching the water rinse the blood and grime off his knuckles to leave the torn edges of his skin clean but for the faint trickle of red they offer as half-formed scabs come loose under his efforts. “Probably. They weren’t wearing the school uniform at least.”

“They could have been high schoolers,” Kasuka suggests.

Shizuo shrugs, a jerky motion of one shoulder that brushes aside the suggestion more than capitulating to it. “Maybe,” he says, and rubs soap hard over already-clean skin until he can feel the hurt of it aching all the way up his wrist. “It doesn’t make a difference. They just wanted to pick a fight, I don’t care who they were.”

Kasuka makes a generic sound from the doorway, an acknowledgement without any implied interest in the subject. Shizuo lets the water run clean over his left hand again, waiting until his fingers have stopped aching to turn his attention to the bruises and blood rising over the knuckles of his right. There’s a pause, a stretch of seconds while he rubs to dislodge dirt and blood alike; when he speaks it’s low, without lifting his head to see if Kasuka is still watching from the doorway. “I met someone today.”

“Oh?” Kasuka only barely manages to bring the word around into a question; it sounds more like a statement, like he’s agreeing with Shizuo’s statement of fact.

Shizuo keeps staring at his hands. “Yeah.” The skin across one of his knuckles is still intact, with just the deep color of a bruise rising to the surface to tell of the impact it made against the face of one of Shizuo’s attackers. He fits his thumb against the color, pushes until he can feel the ache shudder not-quite-unpleasantly along his spine. “The first-year I talked to on Monday.” He lets the bruise go, feels the relief of the removed pressure run under his skin before he reaches to shut off the water and shake his hands partially dry. “He saw me fighting and came up to talk to me after.”

“Oh,” Kasuka says.

“He said he wants to join a club with me,” Shizuo says as he closes his hands on the towel hanging next to the sink so he can dry his hands. “That’s weird, right?” It’s more rhetorical than a true question; he’s frowning at the towel, not even looking up to meet Kasuka’s flat stare. “I already asked him before and he said no.” The towel drags across his knuckles, aching pain up his spine and pressure against the back of his head; Shizuo can see his fingers tightening on the fabric, can feel his expression going tense on frustrated confusion. “That was _before_ he knew who I was, why would he change his mind after he saw me fighting? He should have been scared of me.” His fingers tighten harder, dig so hard against the towel Shizuo can feel the texture printing against his skin; then he lets it go, watching the torn skin at his knuckles slowly go red with blood again. “Everyone is scared of me.”

“Maybe he wasn’t.”

It’s a simple statement. Kasuka delivers it with the same absolute calm he gives to everything, whether it’s discussing what’s for dinner or whether Shizuo is going to be expelled from elementary school for destroying half the playground equipment, and it has the same resonance of complete plausibility that everything he says collects from the everpresent disinterest in his tone. It helps that Shizuo has come to the same conclusion, that all his rehashed memories haven’t been able to find the least trace of fear in the blood-red color of the first-year’s eyes fixed on him. Interest, yes, a sort of intent focus that reminds him vaguely of that that he sees sometimes in Shinra’s face when the other boy is talking about injuries or the poor descriptions he gives of the woman he insists he’s in love with; but no fear, not even a moment of instinctive flinching when Shizuo frowned at him. It doesn’t make sense, even if it’s the only explanation Shizuo can come up with, and it leaves him frowning at the towel in his hands and reaching for a sufficiently reasonable retort as Kasuka straightens from the doorway.

“I’m going to get a snack before dinner,” Kasuka announces, and then he’s gone, moving away from the bathroom and leaving Shizuo to wipe at the slow ooze of blood spreading across his knuckles before he goes looking for the antiseptic ointment. It stings across his injured skin, aching pain up along his spine with a dull hurt that is so familiar Shizuo barely even feels it anymore, and then he leaves his skin to scab without the assistance of a bandage and turns his attention to the cut that has left a path of dried blood along the edge of his hairline. It’s stopped bleeding long since, the trickle of red from it has dried and flakes away as Shizuo rubs at it; it leaves his skin clear, at least of that particular indication of fighting, though the swelling against his lower lip is still there, still shifting the flat line of his mouth lopsided in his reflection. Shizuo stares at it for a moment, considering the asymmetry violence has left on his expression; it’s familiar damage, it will heal as well as it ever does, likely leaving him without even a scar to show for the injury. But he’s not really looking at his reflection, not really seeing his own face; he’s thinking about the cut of the first-year’s voice from over his shoulder as he moved away down the hallway, hearing the laugh of manic amusement clinging close to the other’s words as he trailed Shizuo like a shadow after the conclusion of the fight. _I’ve never met a monster before_ ,  Izaya had said, his voice as raw on sincerity as Shizuo’s knuckles are on the effects of his own strength, and Shizuo knows what the other students call him, knows what even his teachers sometimes whisper when they think he can’t hear; but he’s never heard it to his face, never before seen the shift of someone else’s mouth as they tag him with the label they’ve decided he deserves, as they settle him into a box of their own making with walls too strong for even he to ever break free from. Shizuo had hissed, had snapped some half-formed denial to ward off the burden of that title; but there was a relief to hearing it, a satisfaction just to finally being able to offer a response to the attack even if his answer did nothing to clear the amused interest in the other boy’s face. Izaya had _laughed_ at him, had smirked some coy advice about knowing yourself, and when Shizuo had asked him outright the same question he asked Kasuka Izaya’s answer had been as simple: _I’m not scared of_ anything, with his smile so wide and eyes so fever-bright believing him seemed like the only rational response.

Shizuo frowns at his reflection in the mirror. The motion draws the swollen corner of his mouth down sharply, tenses the slant of his mouth into pain he can feel like an echo of the hurt lingering across his knuckles, but it hides the worst of the bruising, too, granting his expression the illusion of health until a stranger wouldn’t see anything unusual at all.

He wishes he could make the rest of his existence normal as easily.


	4. Character

“Why do you want to join a club anyway?” Izaya asks from the other side of the classroom desk. He has his shoulders hunched in over the club request form laid out between them after claiming it from Shizuo’s unresisting hold; he sounds almost bored even as he asks the question and doesn’t look up to meet Shizuo’s gaze as he puts words to the inquiry. His hair is very dark over his face; Shizuo can’t see the other’s eyes at all for the curtain his hair makes. His own scowl is going as unobserved as Izaya’s eyes are; the other boy hasn’t looked up from the club form even at Shizuo’s attempts to see what he’s filling out in the spaces on the sheet. Izaya keeps talking, still in that same barely-interested tone like he’s listening to the sound of his own voice more than really expecting Shizuo to respond. “Don’t you want to go home after school? You could always wreck havoc in the streets, if your family is so bad.”

Shizuo frowns harder at Izaya’s head, the expression weighting his mouth even though he knows it will go unseen by the other. “My family is fine,” he says, thinking of Kasuka’s steady calm, of his mother’s ready smile, of the casual affection of his father’s infrequent presence on his rare days off. “I just need something to do so I don’t get caught up in fights on my way home.”

There’s a crackle of sound, a drag of laughter in Izaya’s throat, and his chin comes up enough for him to meet Shizuo’s gaze from under the shadow of his hair. His mouth is caught on a smile, the edge of it tugging into a smirk that flashes the white edges of his teeth like an unspoken threat and tenses instinctive aggression along the length of Shizuo’s spine. “Are you trying to convince me you’re _scared_?”

Shizuo can feel his shoulders hunch, can feel the irritation under his skin forming itself into the hard edge of defensiveness that is a mere breath away from truly losing his temper. “I’m not _scared_ ,” he growls, letting the rough edge on the back of the word wear off the rawest edge of his frustration as it goes. Izaya’s still leaning in over the desk, still watching him with a weird reckless light behind his eyes; Shizuo tightens his fingers against his palms, digging his fingernails in hard against the skin in an attempt to hold back the frustration trying to break free of his too-fragile control. “I just don’t like it.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow to match the lopsided drag of his mouth. “You don’t like winning?” It’s almost a laugh, even the sound of his voice shaping itself to amusement like he’s saying something ridiculous, like he’s making fun of Shizuo just with the words he’s attributing to the other boy.

“I don’t like _fighting_ ,” Shizuo snaps, and something in his chest eases just with the admission, as if putting words to the fact has sapped the edge of his rising frustration and let it simmer back to calm in his veins. His fingers ease at his palms, the ache of the pressure at his skin fading as he lets his grip go and looks away from the taunt of Izaya’s expression and out towards the window instead. The setting sun makes his eyes ache and sparkles painfully bright in his vision, but he just blinks into it, letting the distraction of the light burn away the last tension of violence in his body. When he speaks again it’s to the sun more than to Izaya, the words framed more for his own benefit than because he’s really paying attention to his audience. “I hate violence.”

It’s a simple admission. Shizuo has said it before, to Kasuka, to his mother, to anyone who will listen, as if making it his personal motto will somehow make people more willing to believe him. He’s expecting laughter, expecting disbelief; it’s what he usually gets, after all, and Izaya seems willing to laugh at anything and for far less motivation than this. So he’s not surprised when the other boy huffs amusement, when he declares “You’re absurd,” with more purring laughter on the sound than Shizuo has yet heard from him. Shizuo frowns into the sunlight, setting himself against another flood of irritation, and when he looks back Izaya’s still watching him, his mouth still fixed on that smile that doesn’t touch the shadows behind his eyes. There’s a moment of silence as Shizuo stares at Izaya watching him; then Izaya ducks his head to look back down at the club form as he goes on speaking.

“You have inhuman strength and all you say is that you hate violence?” He’s still smiling, Shizuo can see the flicker of his smirk even as bends over the club form, would be able to hear the expression under the other’s tone even without the visual confirmation. “You practically _are_ violence.”

It’s meant as a taunt. Shizuo can hear the laugh under the words, can hear the drag of mockery over Izaya’s tongue as he makes the claim. But Izaya might as well be speaking with Shizuo’s own voice for how accurate the words are, for how easily they fall in line with thoughts he’s turned away from every chance he gets just for his own self-preservation. It’s too much to dodge right now, would require more mental control than Shizuo has to avoid the thought, and for a moment all he can do is cringe and turn away to aim his scowl at the desk in front of him as all his skin prickles hot with shame printed into him along with the shattered bones and torn skin he’s earned from too many fights with too many victims. The burn under his skin isn’t anger anymore, or at least not the kind that makes him throw desks and twist metal; this is the sour kind, the kind that turns in on itself as if he could undo his own strength, as if he could pick apart his own too-quick temper if he only hated it viciously enough. He stares at the desk instead of trying to meet Izaya’s gaze, his inner monologue vicious enough to drown out even the singsongy lilt of Izaya’s voice, until when the other boy says “Here” loud enough to catch Shizuo’s attention Shizuo isn’t sure if it’s the first or the fifth time the other has spoken. He lifts his head, his attention pulling up out of its self-destructive spiral and into startled focus, and there’s movement over the desk, Izaya shoving the club registration form across the distance at Shizuo while the other is still blinking startled attention. “Congratulations, you have yourself a club.” Shizuo lifts a hand to catch the edge of the paper as it slips towards the lip of the desk, and then he’s blinking down at the clean white of the sheet as Izaya leans in and weights him with the anticipation of his gaze.

It’s easy to read. Izaya’s handwriting is neat enough, clean and pristine like typeface if with odd almost-flourishes at the end of words like his sense of identity is forcing itself free of the bounds of the text. Shizuo skims over the first part of the form, the pre-printed header and their last names in alphabetical order one over the other; that’s ordinary, expected, uninteresting. What is interesting is the field for _Title_ , the blank space for _Purpose_ that he so struggled over.

“Humanity Studies,” he says aloud, forming the shape of Izaya’s handwriting into sound without thinking over the action before he does it. The name doesn’t carry any meaning on its own; it lacks the epiphany Shizuo had been braced for. He frowns at the meaningless title before he skips down to the next box and the extra lines of text inside it. “Formed for the purposes of defining the boundaries of humanity and the…”

 _Phenomena that fall outside it_ , the form continues, with such a sharp edge to the lettering that Shizuo can almost hear the words in Izaya’s tone, can nearly taste the cut of the unvoiced laugh under each phrase. _Intended to determine the limit of the human form and explore those instances of behavior inexplicable by normal biological functions_.

There’s an impact against Shizuo’s shin, the weight of a foot kicking against his leg. When he lifts his head Izaya is grinning at him from the other side of the table, his head canted far to the side so his hair casts shadows across his face. “Doesn’t it sound like fun, Shizuo-senpai?” he wants to know, his lips curving on a grin that is as much taunt as it is amusement. “Don’t I have the best ideas?”

Shizuo frowns hard at Izaya. Usually this particular expression is enough to win him a flicker of fright, a moment of tension across someone else’s face or a hunch to their shoulders. Izaya doesn’t so much as bat his eyelashes. “You want to make a club to _study_ me.”

Izaya leans in over the desk, his elbow landing hard against the surface. “Sure.” He catches his chin against his palm, bares his teeth in a sudden lopsided smile that doesn’t touch the shadows in his eyes. Shizuo blinks at the uncanny juxtaposition of the other’s expression. “You didn’t have any bright ideas. And I think humanity is _fascinating_.”

There’s something about the way he drawls over the last word that makes it sound condescending, that frames his interest into the far-off amusement of a god watching half-sentient toys, or perhaps more accurately of a child watching an ant farm. It makes Shizuo’s frown turn to concern, prickles some premonition of worry up along his spine as he considers the untouched shadows behind the other’s almost scarlet eyes. He stares at Izaya for a moment, looking for some self-consciousness in the other’s gaze, seeking some kind of crack in his facade; but there’s nothing, Izaya’s expression might as well be the sheer silver of a mirror for all the give he offers under Shizuo’s consideration.

“You’re crazy,” Shizuo finally says, feeling the truth of the words like awe on his tongue. Izaya’s eyelashes flutter, the dark of them dipping over the color of his eyes at this claim, but his mouth doesn’t ease out of his amused smirk, his expression doesn’t crack under the blow of Shizuo’s statement. “You’re out of your mind.”

Izaya huffs a laugh, his voice skidding high and sun-bright for just a moment. When he reaches across the table for the club form Shizuo doesn’t resist his pull, just lets the other ease the sheet of paper out of his hold and turn it around towards himself again.

“And you’re in the Humanity Club with me,” Izaya declares, ducking his head to consider the form again as if he weren’t filling out the boxes in front of him not minutes before. “What does that make _you_ , senpai?”

 _A monster_. The words are quick on Shizuo’s tongue, his self-determination flickering reflexively into being before he can catch it back; for a moment the sound presses against his lips, weighting the back of his tongue until he has to close his mouth and swallow hard to fight back the burden of the sound into silence again.

“An idiot,” he says instead, finally, when he can trust his voice to work correctly and while Izaya is still bent in over the completed club form. “Are you actually going to turn that in like that?”

“Sure,” Izaya says. He’s dragging his pen across the bottom of the form, fitting the shape of his name into the space thus indicated for it at the base of the page. “Why, do you suddenly have a better idea?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo protests, still fixing the top of Izaya’s head with his scowl since the other won’t lift his gaze to meet Shizuo’s. “This is a stupid goal for a club, they can’t possibly approve this.”

“I don’t think they care,” Izaya informs him. He lifts his head and braces his fingers against the club sheet to pass it across the desk to Shizuo. “Don’t you think the administration will be glad to get you under better control than you are now?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, which is a weak comeback but the best he can manage as his attention drops to the form in front of him. All the blanks but one are filled out; the only space left is under _Club Members_ alongside the outline of Izaya’s own name. Shizuo’s attention catches against the combination of characters, his forehead creasing as he considers the dark lines. “Are your parents the inventive type?”  
Izaya’s laugh is crystalline, brittle at the edges and sparkling so Shizuo doesn’t even have to look up to hear the smirk around the other’s voice. “When it comes to their children’s names, at least. Do you have a problem with it, senpai?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and reaches for his own pen to fill in the shape of his name on the line next to Izaya’s. “It’s fine.” The ink soaks into the page, marking out the characters of his name indelibly on the form; Shizuo sets the pen aside as he finishes, reaching to touch his fingers to the paper just under the odd characters of Izaya’s name and the familiar shape of his own.

“It’s official,” Izaya declares from the other side of the desk. “Or it will be, as soon as I turn it in.” He reaches across the gap between them, catching the edge of the form and tugging it free of Shizuo’s hold. “You could look a little happier. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

“I didn’t want to be in a club so I could be _researched_ ,” Shizuo protests, looking up to meet Izaya’s lingering smirk with the weight of a glare, but it’s a weak expression, and he only manages to hold it for a moment before he’s looking back down to the ink on the page and the names one alongside each other, _Orihara Izaya_ and _Heiwajima Shizuo_ in matched black ink on either side of the form.

Their names look better together than Shizuo expected they would.


	5. Flinch

Shizuo doesn’t hear Izaya coming.

It’s not entirely his fault. He’s distracted, caught up in the heart-pounding rush of a fistfight with one of the first-year delinquents too reckless or too stupid to refuse when his friends told him to pick a fight with Heiwajima Shizuo; the fight is over quickly, ending almost as soon as it starts with a pair of punches that leave Shizuo’s attacker on the ground and so still Shizuo is sure he’s either unconscious or doing a fantastic job of pretending to be. It doesn’t make a difference whether he’s feigning or not; even if he gets to his feet as soon as Shizuo turns his back, the raw viciousness in Shizuo’s blood says he can take it, purrs that if that’s the case the other boy deserves whatever Shizuo does to him, that if he’s willing to attack without warning he must be ready to accept reciprocation in equal measure. So Shizuo is letting the adrenaline in his veins go, and shaking out the strain of violence from his shoulder and wrist, and then there’s the weight of a footstep just behind him and he’s turning too fast to think. His fingers curl as he moves, his arm lifts itself into angle for a punch; and there’s movement, hands coming up in a sign of defenselessness that Shizuo parses just as he starts to swing. It’s hard to stop the forward motion of his arm, requiring a second of processing time that lets his hand cross almost the whole distance to Izaya’s face, and it’s only at the last moment that Shizuo is able to stall the action unfinished with his knuckles scant inches from shattering the high arch of Izaya’s cheekbone under their impact.

“Easy there, senpai,” Izaya says, his voice remarkably steady as he holds Shizuo’s gaze. Shizuo doesn’t think he even blinked, didn’t see him so much as brace for the impact. “It’s just your cute kouhai.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo gasps, delayed-reaction panic chilling all the fire from his veins as he snatches his hand back, as he unfolds his fist to shake all the tension free of his fingers. “Don’t _do_ that, Izaya-kun.”

“Which part?” Izaya asks, but he’s not waiting for the answer; he’s leaning sideways to blink attention at the still form behind Shizuo. “Initiating communication or startling you?”

“Both,” Shizuo growls, trying to condense his horrified chill at what he could have done into an understandable expression, but Izaya isn’t even looking at him anymore; he’s stepping sideways, moving around the wall of Shizuo’s body as if the other isn’t even there. Shizuo has to turn to track him, to hold the weight of his glare against Izaya’s skinny shoulders, and it goes unnoticed anyway; Izaya’s focus is caught by the delinquent still on the ground as he approaches close enough to peer at the other’s face. “I could have _killed_ you.”

Izaya does look back at that, flashing Shizuo a grin that sparkles dark in his eyes. “You shouldn’t exaggerate, senpai,” he informs the other. “At worst you would have put me in the hospital for a day or two. That’s hardly on a level with death, is it?” He looks away and back to Shizuo’s erstwhile attacker; when he swings his foot out it’s to toe the other boy in the ribs hard enough to rock him to the side. “Unless you have a very different definition of murder than the commonly accepted one.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, because that’s easier than wrapping coherency to the panic in his veins, easier than finding voice for his lingering horror at nearly destroying the tentative _almost_ of whatever their relationship is with an unthinking swing of his hand. When his fingers curl at his side it’s not from anger, or at least not any that would find Izaya as its target. “I could have hurt you.”

“Like you hurt him?” Izaya asks. His eyes are dark when he looks back; Shizuo can see them catch the light for a moment, can see them flicker for a heartbeat before Izaya dips his chin to drop them back into shadow. “Other people aren’t allowed to startle you or start conversation, apparently. Did he have the nerve to actually ask you a question to earn this kind of retribution?”

“Stop it,” Shizuo growls. “He started the fight in the first place.”

“Oh?” Izaya hasn’t looked back to the other boy; he’s still watching Shizuo, still has his mouth quirked up on the shadow of an unvoiced laugh. “He must have been an idiot, then.”

Shizuo frowns. “To start a fight with me?”

“To not have an escape plan if he lost.” Izaya turns his back on the other boy completely, moving forward to step past Shizuo again; he looks relaxed, completely calm as he moves even though Shizuo’s hands are still balled into fists at his sides, even though Shizuo’s rising frustration with the situation in general if not Izaya in specific is dragging his expression into a grimace that would be a warning to anyone else. It’s not that Izaya’s not seeing him; he keeps watching Shizuo as he moves, his gaze following the other’s face as he steps past him well within range of a punch like he’s making his continued eye contact a dare for a blow. He’s all but asking for it, Shizuo can see the drag of laughter at his lips like he’s looking forward to the combat, but there’s no heat in Shizuo’s veins, nothing but that cold chill of fear for what could have been, what he might have done if he were a heartbeat slower in catching back the swing of his hand. Izaya moves all the way past him, back to his initial position; when he turns it’s to pivot on his heel, to grind his footprint into the dirt under him like he’s staking a claim on the location. “If I picked a fight with you I would have the good sense to know how I was going to get away first.”

Shizuo huffs a humorless laugh. “That’s not why they want to fight me.” He lets his hands uncurl with a conscious effort of will, feeling every tendon in his fingers and wrists ease individually until his hands hang slack and heavy at his sides. He can feel the bruises rising over his knuckles, can feel the dull throb of torn skin across two of the fingers on his right hand.

“Why _do_ they want to fight you?” Izaya asks. Shizuo lifts his head, his attention skipping up to the other’s face from his introspective consideration of the ache across his hand; Izaya is watching him, his eyes still as dark as the shadow of his hair and his mouth still quirked on that smile that hasn’t flickered in the entire time since Shizuo turned to mistake him for another attacker. His head tips to the side, his grin stretches wider; in the shadow of his hair his teeth seem very white. “To prove to themselves they’re stronger than a monster?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits. “Probably.”

“Hm,” Izaya hums. “That’s silly.” He takes a step backwards without looking, without lifting his head from its considering angle. “They should at least have a good reason before they go around picking a fight like that.”

“A good reason,” Shizuo repeats. “Like _what_?”

Izaya’s laugh is as bright as bells, as sharp as a knife edge. “Like having fun,” he says. “Don’t you have fun when you’re fighting, senpai?”

Shizuo can’t find words to respond to that. He growls instead, letting the low rumble of sound in his throat speak for him, and Izaya just laughs again and shakes his hair back from his face so the sunlight can touch the dark of his eyes.

Even when Shizuo takes a step closer, Izaya doesn’t flinch any more than he did for the first stalled-out blow.


	6. Light

Shizuo is starting to worry about how much time he spends following Izaya around.

It’s not on purpose. It’s not like he’s making it his life’s goal to become the other boy’s shadow, not as if he’s trying to find out everything Izaya does in his free time; Shizuo suspects he’d rather not know, if he had a say in the matter. It’s just that more and more often Izaya is there whenever Shizuo turns around, smirking from the fringes of a fight or perched on the edge of a wall and purring some suggestion that Shizuo doesn’t think to protest until it’s too late. He doesn’t _mean_ to fall into line with everything Izaya says they should do; it’s just that Izaya speaks with so much certainty, says “Come on, senpai” with such absolute force behind the words that Shizuo is following him before he has a chance to think. Today Izaya was waiting for Shizuo when he got out of class, leaning against the far wall of the hallway and smiling that weird dark smile that never makes it to meet the laughter in his eyes, and when he moved Shizuo turned to trail him, not able to even form the words of a question until Izaya was opening the door to an unused classroom and leading the way into the empty space.

“What are you doing?” Shizuo asks from the doorway, hesitating with his feet still on the other side of the threshold. “Are we allowed to be in here?”

“No one else is using it,” Izaya tells him airily. He’s halfway across the room by now, navigating the array of desks with a strange skipping pace, as if he’s making a game of cutting around the corners of the furniture without slowing his forward movement. “Do you really think the school is going to care more about us using an empty classroom than they do about you beating up every gang in the city with school property?”

“I don’t beat up gangs,” Shizuo says, but it’s a weak protest and he knows it himself. Izaya doesn’t even bother retorting; he just glances back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow and curling his mouth around the beginning of a skeptical laugh before he turns back to the windows on the far side of the room. Shizuo hunches his shoulders in, feeling the familiar discomfort of self-consciousness settling in along his spine and knotting in his too-strong muscles; he leaves Izaya to fiddle with the latch and work the window open while he turns down one of the aisles between the desks and paces idly out to the end of the row. His own seat in his class is near the back of the room, a row away from the distraction of the window but far enough from the front that he could be forgotten if he weren’t such a constant topic of attention. He finds the matching seat in this room, presses his fingers against the unfamiliar surface of the desk as Izaya shoves the window open with a whine from the rarely-used frame; the texture is a little different, lacking some of the scratches Shizuo has become familiar with over the first few weeks of class, but when he looks back up to the front of the room the angle of the perspective is familiar even with the eerie emptiness of the room, the position similar enough that he feels a little like he’s stepped into an alternate reality almost but not quite the same as his own. It’s a strange comfort, as much unsettling as reassuring, but Shizuo pulls the chair back anyway and drops to sit at the desk as much like his own as something other than his desk can be before leaning into the same tense hunch he usually adopts in his own classroom. It’s strange to have the room empty around him, odd to be absent the stares he’s so used to; when he looks up even Izaya is looking elsewhere, tipping himself far forward out the open window so the breeze outside catches against the dark of his hair.

“You haven’t answered me,” Shizuo says, reclaiming some traction on his typical frustration as he watches Izaya lean farther out the window than he should. “What are we _doing_?”

“I told you at lunch.” Izaya braces his hand against the edge of the windowsill as he pulls himself back up and into the classroom, swinging on his heel and turning to lean against the sill instead of leaning out past it. His teeth are very white when he grins at Shizuo, forming that odd cut of a smile that looks as much like a threat as it does amusement. “If we’re going to be in a club together we need to have club activities to report on.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes and lets his weight fall back against the support of the chair behind him. If he kicks out against the front of the desk he can tip himself backwards, can rock off the front legs of the chair to balance against the back pair. “It doesn’t matter. No one really cares what the clubs _do_ as long as you’re part of one.”

“Are you a slacker, senpai?” Izaya’s voice is cutting, sing-songy on laughter but sharp as a knife underneath the perpetual strain of mockery on his tongue. When Shizuo looks back at him Izaya’s watching the shift of the chair legs under the other, his eyes dark in the shadow of his lashes. “How am I supposed to become a productive member of society if all I have is your example to follow?”

Shizuo frowns at the other boy. “Aren’t you supposed to respect me?”

Izaya’s gaze skips up from the chair to Shizuo’s face, his smile cracking wider over his expression. “I do,” he purrs, insincerity syrup-sweet on his tongue as he pushes himself up onto the windowsill and kicks his feet out in front of him, turning his head to watch the swing of his legs instead of Shizuo’s face. “Do you think I don’t?”

“I think you’re a brat,” Shizuo says with aggressive honesty. He doesn’t look away from the curve of the smile still holding to Izaya’s lips. “I should never have started a club with you.”

Izaya’s mouth twitches, his head tips back. “Feel free to leave as soon as you find someone else willing to spend time with you.” He leans backwards out the window, letting his shoulders tilt out into the open space behind him. “You’ve done an impressive job of terrifying everyone else.”

Shizuo can feel irritation rising in his chest, can feel the pressure of frustration weighting against the inside of his ribcage. “Shut up,” he orders. “Are you _trying_ to make me hate you?”

Izaya tips his chin down enough to grant Shizuo his attention again. His mouth curves upwards sharply, fitting around the shape of a grin as hot as an open flame. “I don’t care if you hate me,” he says, sounding as easy and offhand as if he really means the words, as if the goodwill of other students is something trivial and unimportant instead of the only thing Shizuo has ever really wanted. “Let’s take over the school.”

Shizuo’s laugh is startled out of him as much by the casual absurdity of the statement as by the non-sequitur of Izaya’s subject change. His mouth curves on an unwilling smile, some of the anger in his veins easing into the warmth of amusement before he has a chance to decide if he wants it to or not. “I wish I could tell when you’re serious.”

Izaya’s smile is a dare. “I’m always serious,” he says, and Shizuo knows that for a lie without looking, doesn’t need to hear the laughter under Izaya’s voice or see the shadow behind his eyes to know it for such. He keeps looking anyway, even though Izaya is watching his own feet instead of meeting Shizuo’s gaze; he’s swinging his legs out in front of him, tipping his shoulders back to lean far out the window and into the open air behind him as he goes on speaking with easy inattention. “We could do it, you know. You have the raw strength and I’ve got the brains. It would be _fun_." His head tips back, his balance wobbles precariously against the sill; Shizuo can see the strain in Izaya’s arms, can see the reflexive swing of the other’s feet as he tries to maintain his position against the very edge of the window. They’re a few floors up, Shizuo knows without looking; the nearest thing on the other side of the sill is the pavement three stories below, far enough away that a fall would be more dangerous than facing down Shizuo himself in a fistfight.

“Stop it,” Shizuo says, feeling tension knot into the shape of worry in his chest as he watches Izaya teeter against the ledge. “You’re going to fall.”

Izaya turns his head to meet Shizuo’s glare, his eyes catching the sunlight to lighten to the odd blood-red color they sometimes take on with the right illumination. His smile goes wider, forming the shape of laughter at his mouth; but then he brings his feet in towards the wall as ordered, even going so far as to fit his toes under the railing running against the edge of the classroom as if to lock himself in place.

“Is that a no?” he wants to know, ducking his head as he leans in from his precarious tilt out the window and eases the white-knuckled grip he had on the sill as he keeps watching Shizuo from under the dark shadow of his hair. “Or is the school by itself not enough for you?” His whole expression looks darker now than it did, with the angle of his shoulders blocking the sunlight from sweeping over the sharp angles of his face.

“Maybe the city,” Izaya says, and then he leans backwards and out the open window into the empty space behind him.

Shizuo has never moved so fast in his life. There’s a shout in his throat, a blurt of “ _Fuck_ ” as loud as sudden panic can make it, but it’s not coherency of speech taking control of him; it’s adrenaline instead, surging him to his feet and sending him lunging forward without any consideration for the desk still in front of him or the way the legs of his fallen chair rattle to leave bruises against his shins as he kicks it aside. Izaya’s tipping out the window, the angle of his shoulders dipping well beyond the point of saving himself, and Shizuo’s entire body has seized tight on sudden panic; he’s sure even the beating of his heart has stalled out in the first terrified rush of horror. The gap between them is narrowing, Izaya’s still at the edge of the window but any moment he’s going to fall off in the other direction, he’s going to tumble off the edge and Shizuo is going to miss -- and Shizuo reaches, and touches fabric, and his fingers twist to make a fist of the front of Izaya’s coat just as he throws his other hand out to catch and stop his own forward momentum against the glass of the open window.

“We could take everything,” Izaya is saying, as calmly as if he doesn’t realize he’s hanging from Shizuo’s grip on his shirtfront, as if he didn’t even notice Shizuo’s precipitous rush across the classroom to stop his fall. He has his head tipped back to stare out into the clear sky, isn’t even looking up at Shizuo; from this angle Shizuo can see the rhythm of Izaya’s heartbeat thrumming just against the line of his throat. “You and me.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Shizuo manages. His heart is pounding doubletime in his chest as if to make up for those few moments of raw panic too all-encompassing to even allow for such basic instincts as breathing. He can feel his fingers cramping against Izaya’s shirt, like he’s afraid his grip is likely to give way unless he can actually meld his body to the other’s clothing. “The hell is _wrong_ with you?” His voice is shaking, he can feel it thrumming over the strain of terror in his chest; if he looks away from Izaya’s face he can see the pavement below, can imagine too clearly the damage such a fall would do even to his own abnormal frame.

Izaya looks back at him. His gaze is steady, his expression calm; Shizuo wonders dizzily if it’s a show, if it’s just an act the other is putting on to tease him, or if Izaya really has so little self-preservation that he’s not even afraid at throwing himself out an open window on the assumption that Shizuo will catch him. His lashes flutter, his mouth twists; but when he speaks there’s no laughter on the sound at all.

“I wasn’t going to _fall_.” He shifts his feet, unhooking them from the railing where they’ve been caught; Shizuo hadn’t even noticed the extra support they offered for his own desperate grip. Izaya’s lips drag at the corner as he kicks his feet up and out; for a moment Shizuo can feel the other’s balance veer out over the edge of the windowsill, can feel the weight of Izaya’s body entirely hanging from his hold. “I’m not _crazy_.”

“ _Come here_ ,” Shizuo demands, his voice still raw in a range he didn’t know he could hit, and he drags hard at Izaya’s shirtfront. With the radiance of adrenaline surging through him it takes no effort at all to lift Izaya out of the window by main force and drag him bodily back into the room. For a moment Izaya’s feet are off the ground, his whole body supported by Shizuo’s grip on his shirt; then Shizuo lets him go to push him hard into the safety of the classroom, to keep the other as far from the window as possible while he turns to slam it shut with such force the frame creaks at the impact.

“You’ll kill yourself with stunts like that,” Shizuo says against the comfort of the closed window, framing the fear under his voice to justified anger before he turns to face the other again. Izaya’s smiling at him, the way Shizuo knew he would be, his mouth curving on an unvoiced laugh and his eyes sparkling with secrets Shizuo isn’t invited to share. He looks unflustered, calm and glowing with amusement; it’s Shizuo who’s shaking with the aftershocks of adrenaline, Shizuo who can’t ease the tension in the fingers still tight in a fist against his side.

It’s terrifying to realize how light Izaya’s life felt in his hold.


	7. Responsible

Izaya’s not waiting when Shizuo gets out of class for lunch.

This isn’t _that_ much of a surprise. After that first day at the back of the school Izaya’s consistently appeared at some point during Shizuo’s lunch break, but he’s only actually waiting once or a week or so; the rest of the time he’ll let himself onto the school roof five minutes after Shizuo arrives, or ten minutes before the end of the break, or be waiting there already when Shizuo shows up, leaning out over the fence encircling the top edge of the roof with that casual disregard for gravity that always makes Shizuo’s chest tighten on secondhand panic on the other’s behalf. The thought makes Shizuo frown at the empty hallway, now, scowling at the empty wall across from his classroom door as if sufficient irritation will make Izaya materialize out of clear space; but of course it doesn’t, and Shizuo is left to maneuver the crowd of other students as he makes his way to the stairs leading to the rooftop alone. He pauses along the way, stopping for a drink of water at one of the fountains in the hallway, and maybe it’s deliberately to prove to himself that he’s not in a hurry but it doesn’t make a difference when he doesn’t have an audience to call him out on his reasons. He takes longer than he needs to, wandering along the long route back to the stairway to the roof and wondering in an idle, hypothetical way what Izaya would do if Shizuo didn’t show up for lunch one day. The other boy seems content enough to appear whenever and wherever is most convenient for him; Shizuo wonders if Izaya would wait for him if their positions were reversed, if it was Izaya with the predictable routine and Shizuo who was the flighty one. He’s not sure, even in the comfortable span of his own imagination; after all, he’s the one who doesn’t fit in, he’s the one carrying the weight of his monstrous strength on his shoulders along with the fit of his school uniform. Shizuo can’t even figure out why Izaya has taken such an intense interest in him; it reminds him vaguely of Shinra’s childhood appreciation of Shizuo as a topic of study, but in spite of the statement written on the application form for their club Izaya seems far less interested in the physical details of Shizuo’s strength and far more invested in teasing, in throwing taunts like daggers and laughing whenever he can get a reaction from the other. The thought makes Shizuo grimace as he turns the corner to the top of the stairs to the roof, hunches his shoulders on discomfort as he pushes the door open, and then there’s a sharp bite of sound from the other side of the roof, “ _Fuck you_ ” skidding high and strained, and Shizuo looks up in reflexive response to what sounds like a fight.

It’s not a fight, or at least not what he recognizes as the give-and-take of those scuffles he’s seen from enough of a distance for him to maintain his own calm. It looks like bullying from the distance of the door, one boy with a fistful of another’s shirt as he shoves him back against the links of the rooftop fence ,as the other lets himself be pushed without offering any resistance at all. The second boy’s feet are off the ground, his stability entirely abandoned to the grip of the other’s fist on his shirt, and then he smiles, and Shizuo doesn’t need to hear the too-soft lilt of whatever he’s saying to recognize the cutting edge of Izaya’s smirk.

Shizuo takes a step forward and lets the weight of the door slam shut behind him. It sounds echoingly loud to his ears but neither of the two boys at the fence even glance at him; he doesn’t think either of them heard the noise for their focus on each other. The stranger is shoving Izaya against the fence, tipping him back over the top edge of it, and Izaya isn’t trying to fight back at all; he’s just smiling, his grin dragging wider the farther he goes, his fingers catching to skim over the links of the fence more like he’s feeling out the shape of them than trying to stop his upward motion. The other boy looks frantic, his mouth trembling and eyes wide with incoherent adrenaline; it’s a strange way to look when Izaya is offering him no more resistance than that laugh at his mouth, but the cause for his tension is unimportant. What’s important is that he’s still shoving Izaya back, that the set of his jaw says the threat is sincere if not the intention, and Shizuo is scowling even before he’s in range of a blow, growling “ _Hey_ ” from the other side of the rooftop as he strides forward over the space between him and the other two boys.

Izaya doesn’t turn his head. It’s the other boy who reacts, whose gaze veers around to fix on Shizuo with flaring anger behind his eyes. He opens his mouth to snarl something, to tell Shizuo to fuck off and leave them alone, Shizuo is sure; and then his eyes flicker over the other’s face, and his expression falls into slack horror, and he mouths the shape of _Heiwajima_ on his lips with so much breathless fright Shizuo can’t even hear the sound. His whole body is collapsing in on itself, following some instinct to make himself look smaller, less dangerous, nonthreatening, and ever before that’s been enough to prickle horror down Shizuo’s spine, to make him flinch back into apologetic guilt for the fear he’s caused. But Izaya’s only just landing back on his feet, is only just steadying himself back on the ground, and for the first time in his life Shizuo doesn’t feel anything but vicious satisfaction at the fear in the stranger’s eyes. He’s curling his hand into a fist, starting to smile on the rising tide of frustrated anger, and then: “Shizu- _chan_ ,” as whip-quick as an order in a voice too familiar to ignore. Shizuo’s attention veers sideways, skidding from the satisfaction of fury to the itch of irritation at the nickname, but Izaya isn’t even looking at him; he’s staring at the other boy instead, his mouth quirked up at the corner. “What are you doing here?”

“You know _Heiwajima_?” the stranger gasps, making Shizuo’s name sound like that of a demon or a monster or a god, like something too far outside the bounds of humanity to be viewed as another mortal existence. Shizuo glances at him again, his fingers tensing against his palm; but Izaya just huffs a laugh, and when Shizuo looks back Izaya’s wearing such a self-satisfied smile that it prickles some self-preservation instinct down Shizuo’s spine in spite of his advantage in strength and size on the other.

“I know everyone,” Izaya says, and “ _Fuck_ ,” the stranger blurts, finally turning away from the weight of Izaya’s stare to bolt for the doorway. He doesn’t look at Shizuo again; he’s too busy moving away as fast as he can, sprinting for the door as if he can avoid Shizuo’s attention if he just moves fast enough. Shizuo scowls at the stranger’s hunched shoulders, feels his momentarily-forgotten anger resettling itself along his spine, and when the other drags the door open Shizuo takes a step back towards him, the adrenaline in his veins purring promises of revenge and satisfaction to the back of his thoughts. He’s going to break his nose, he thinks, he’ll drag him back up here bodily and hold _him_ over the edge of the rooftop fence and--

“It must be nice to feel like the hero.”

Shizuo’s attention veers sideways, his whole focus reorienting itself as he turns as suddenly as if Izaya’s voice is a physical force to stall his momentum and pivot him back around towards the other boy. Izaya’s still standing by the fence, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze fixed on Shizuo; his mouth is still clinging to the remnants of the smile he gave the stranger, his expression still as unflustered as if he isn’t barely a minute away from an experience of life-threatening danger. “Is it strange to see conflict from the other side, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo frowns. “Don’t call me that,” he says, but he’s distracted even as he makes the demand; he’s still thinking about the grip of the other boy’s fist at Izaya’s shirt, still seeing the unresisting curve of Izaya’s back as he let himself be pushed up against the support of the fence. “What the hell was that?”

Izaya glances sideways at the fence next to him, tips his head and lifts his shoulder into a shrug that says _nothing_ as clearly as his voice says “A conversation.” He steps forward over the gap between them, pacing out the distance with as much unconcern as he showed with his back to the fence and his shoulders over open space; when he tosses his head it’s to flick his hair out of his eyes so he can meet Shizuo’s gaze directly. “Don’t worry about it, _senpai_.”

Shizuo can feel his jaw tighten, can feel his expression set into determination at the sound of that title and the responsibility that goes with it, however mocking Izaya’s voice might be. “It looked like he was going to push you off the roof,” he says, and watches Izaya’s lashes flutter, watches the other’s gaze pull away for a moment like he can’t make himself meet Shizuo’s stare.

“I would have caught myself,” Izaya says without looking back up. Shizuo can’t see his eyes, can’t get a read on his expression; he’s still frowning through an attempt at comprehension when Izaya reaches out towards the lunch in Shizuo’s hold, his fingertips catching and ghosting electricity out over Shizuo’s skin that has Shizuo jerking away as if from an open flame almost before Izaya speaks. “Did you make this yourself?”

“No,” Shizuo says. “My mom made it.” His attention flickers down to the reach of Izaya’s hand still hovering from where Shizuo snatched his hand back from the contact, to the complete absence of a bag in Izaya’s hands or over his shoulder. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure he’s ever seen Izaya eat anything during the few weeks they’ve spent together during lunch. His forehead creases, his mouth drags into a frown of concern. “Don’t you have anything to eat?”

Izaya doesn’t meet Shizuo’s gaze as he shrugs and moves past the other towards the benches against the far side of the roof. “It’s a pain to bring something,” he declares, and Shizuo can hear the strain on his voice under the singsongy attempt at unconcern, can hear the tremor in the other’s throat even if he can’t see Izaya’s expression to confirm it. “I have better things to do with my time.”

“Lunch is important,” Shizuo says as he comes across the rooftop to join Izaya on the bench. Izaya glances sideways at him as he sits down but Shizuo doesn’t look up to meet the other’s gaze; he keeps his attention on the lunchbag in his hands, keeps aiming his scowl at the knot in the fabric as he tugs it loose. There’s pressure in his chest, an ache of something too secondhand to be sadness but too clear to be ignored; it makes his movements jerkier than usual, tenses in his chest enough that he has to cough to clear the knot of sympathy from his throat before he can manage: “You can have some of mine, if you want,” with his voice gone rough with unfamiliar self-consciousness.

It’s not like it’s a dramatic gesture of friendship; it’s fairly minimal, all things considered. But with how blase Izaya is when it comes to his own well-being, Shizuo figures it’s best to start small.


	8. Uncomprehending

“Do your parents even know I’m coming over?”

Izaya asks the question from Shizuo’s side, where he’s pressed close enough for his elbow to crush against the other’s arm with every step they take. He’s been even more energetic than usual since they left school, as if the absence of classroom walls has set free some repressed store of personality more even than what he usually demonstrates; they’re not even all the way to Shizuo’s street yet and he’s already managed to nearly fall while balancing along a low wall and give Shizuo a pair of bruises from the catch of his elbow against the other’s arm.

“They’re not home until late tonight,” Shizuo offers in response, taking a half-step sideways to dodge another blow of Izaya’s swinging arm. “It’ll be just us and Kasuka.”

“The beloved brother.” Izaya steps in to trail Shizuo’s movement, pressing hard enough against the other’s shoulder that for a moment Shizuo is carrying the weight of Izaya’s balance as well as his own. “Does _he_ know I’m coming for dinner?”

“He won’t care,” Shizuo says immediately, without needing the least pause to call up the bored acceptance that Kasuka always offers in response to anything Shizuo tells him. “Kasuka doesn’t mind anything.”

Izaya snorts the edge of a laugh. “He sounds _scintillating_.”

Shizuo glances sideways, his mouth tightening on a frown at the cut of Izaya’s tone. “Shut up,” he orders, even though he has no real hope that Izaya will actually listen to him. “He’s a lot easier to be around than you are.”

Izaya gasps an inhale and lifts a hand to his chest. “Senpai, you wound me.” He tips his chin down to gaze up through the shadow of his hair at Shizuo; his eyes look the darker for the cover, his grin the sharper. “Don’t you appreciate my company?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says again. “Or I’ll leave you here and you can have dinner by yourself.” Izaya laughs in response to this threat and leans in hard to catch his elbow at Shizuo’s arm, but he does go obediently quiet after all, leaving Shizuo to listen to just the sound of their mismatched footsteps on the sidewalk as he watches Izaya sideways in case the other does something alarming enough to warrant a response. For once, though, Izaya is quiet, apparently content to fall to peace alongside Shizuo as they round the corner to approach the familiar front of Shizuo’s family’s house. Shizuo keeps his focus on the other boy as they draw closer, watches Izaya’s gaze flicker across the ordinary lines of the architecture and the front steps of the house, and so he sees when Izaya blinks himself into judgment, and takes a breath, and declares “Boring” as if it’s a judgment on Shizuo’s entire life and not just the appearance of his house.

Shizuo shoots Izaya a frown the other boy doesn’t even bother looking up to see as he fishes his key free and moves forward to open the door. “I _told_ you,” he says. “It’s just a _house_.”

“I didn’t think you were _serious_ ,” Izaya starts, but then the door comes open under Shizuo’s hold, and there’s a shout of “Shizuo!” with far more energy than Shizuo has ever heard from his brother, and Shizuo is just turning to face the speaker when Kishitani Shinra topples forward out of the now-open doorway and directly into a one-sided hug.

“Shinra,” Shizuo sighs over the top of Shinra’s head. “What are you doing here?”

“He showed up ten minutes ago.” That’s far calmer, objective and disinterested in a way that declares the speaker to be Kasuka well before Shizuo has actually looked down the hall to see his brother’s more sedate approach. “He’s been poking through the house while he waited for you.”

“I haven’t seen you since school started.” Shinra finally lets his hold on Shizuo’s shoulders go, stepping back by a few inches to beam up at the other boy. “Aren’t we friends, Shizuo?”

“I’ve been busy,” Shizuo protests, because that seems the fastest way to express that he’s had more than enough to occupy his attention since school started thanks to the addition of Izaya to his daily routine. “I joined a club.”

“No way.” Shinra’s eyes are bright behind his glasses, his smile going wider even as he says “I’m so jealous. Celty tells me I should join one but none of them are interesting at all.”

“Can’t you just start your own?” The question is sharp, offered like a blow from over Shizuo’s shoulder; when Shizuo looks back Izaya is staring at Shinra, his chin tipped down to throw shadows over his face and his mouth set into a hard line like Shizuo’s never seen it before. His shoulders are tipping in around himself, his eyes narrowing to shadow; and then Shinra chirps a laugh so startling Shizuo can see Izaya flinch from the sudden burst of the sound.

“Sorry!” Shinra steps sideways, dodging Shizuo as if he’s suddenly become the obstacle of an inanimate object instead of another human being. “Celty always says I don’t know how to act like a normal person. I’m Kishitani Shinra.”

“Orihara Izaya,” Izaya says. His mouth curves into what Shizuo supposes technically counts as a smile, but his voice is completely flat, and the shadows behind his eyes don’t so much as flicker as he offers his hand for Shinra to shake.

“Are you Shizuo’s friend?” Shinra asks. “He’s an exciting guy, isn’t he?”

“He’s in the club with him.” It’s Kasuka speaking again, before Shizuo or Izaya have a chance to open their mouths. When Shizuo looks back Kasuka’s standing framed by the doorway, looking down at the pudding cup in his hand rather than meeting anyone’s gaze. “Shizuo won’t stop talking about him.”

Shizuo can feel color surge under his skin in a rush of embarrassment too strong for him to even think about fighting back. “Shut up, _Kasuka_ ,” he hisses, his voice skidding rough on self-consciousness. He can feel the weight of Izaya’s eyes on him, can feel his cheeks going darker under the other’s attention. “It’s only because I’m around him all day.”

Kasuka shrugs, his attention already visibly elsewhere, and turns away to move back into the interior of the house. Shinra skips over the distance to the inside of the hallway, careful on his toes as if he can protect his socks from further dirt if he moves carefully enough, and Shizuo is left to radiate embarrassment under the focus of Izaya’s stare. He looks sideways, just to be sure he’s not imagining the other’s attention; for a heartbeat their eyes meet, Izaya’s stare half-lidded with consideration and his mouth quirking on some unstated taunt before Shizuo looks away again to fight himself back to coherency.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” he hisses, hearing the words crack off his tongue like ice to cool the burn of embarrassment in his veins. “It’s only because you’re such a pest.”

“Sure,” Izaya purrs, some of his usual laughter audible under his voice again. Shizuo growls, self-conscious frustration too tight in his throat to grant him the coherency of speech, and he moves towards the doorway instead of looking back to meet the focus of Izaya’s eyes on him.  Shinra’s waiting just inside the doorway, hovering at the foot of the stairs and all but glowing with the irrepressible cheer that always so characterizes his entire existence.

“It really is good to see you!” he burbles while Shizuo drops to sit at the edge of the entryway and tug at his shoes. “It’s been weeks, how have you been?”

“Busy,” Shizuo says without looking up. He gets one shoe off and glances back up to the doorway where Izaya is still hovering on the far side of the front step; he’s staring down the warm-lit glow of Shizuo’s hallway, his expression so entirely blank even the curve of his usual smile is absent. Shizuo jerks his head to gesture Izaya inside, but the other boy doesn’t see the motion, and Shinra’s still talking with the same manic pace as ever. “I was going to come and visit a little later in the year, maybe around Christmas, but Celty asked how you were doing so I came to find out for her! She always asks after my friends, isn’t that wonderful of her?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says as he pulls his other shoe free, only half-listening to Shinra’s favorite topic of conversation. His attention is more caught by Izaya still standing on the far side of the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched into a position strangely close to self-consciousness even though Shizuo’s never seen any indication of shyness from the other before. “You can come in.” Izaya still doesn’t look at him. “Izaya-kun.” That finally does it, brings the other boy’s attention swinging sideways to land at Shizuo’s face; but his mouth is still drawn into that flat line of tension, his eyes are still dark and completely absent any trace of the sparkle that’s usually there. Shizuo frowns, feeling a prickle of concern run up his spine. “Come in and shut the door.”

Izaya stares at him for a long moment, blinking like he doesn’t quite understand the order; then finally he ducks his head and steps over the threshold, uncrossing his arms so he can reach behind him and draw the door shut. He’s still not smiling, still looks tense in a way that catches and holds Shizuo’s focus, but he doesn’t look up as he moves to sit down and take his shoes off, and when Shizuo blinks Shinra’s still talking at an unhesitating pace as if he either didn’t notice or doesn’t care about Shizuo’s distraction.

“--be nervous, if you were someone else, but I trust you, I know you’d never take Celty away from me!” Shinra’s laugh sparkles bright in the enclosed space; there’s more than a hint of mania under it, enough that Shizuo would be concerned if he weren’t more than familiar with this particular aspect of Shinra’s personality. “She’s always happy when I spend time with my friends, so I thought I’d come by to visit. And I was right to listen!” He turns his attention to Izaya, still sitting on the floor with his head bowed low over his knees as he pulls at his shoes. “Now I can tell her I met Orihara-kun as well!”

Shizuo can see the way Izaya’s head angles up, can see the dark of the other’s lashes going sharp-edged in profile as he looks up from under the weight of his hair. His mouth is still set, still harsh at the corners at he stares unmistakable aggression up at Shinra; but Shinra isn’t even looking at him anymore, is pushing to his feet and moving down the hallway without even waiting for a response.

“I’m going to see if Kasuka has any more of those pudding cups,” he announces, padding away to the living room while Izaya stares shadows at his retreating back. “Hurry up if you want any!”

“Shut up,” Shizuo calls after him without really thinking over the words at all. He’s watching Izaya instead, still feeling that tension of concern running taut all up the line of his back. Izaya watches Shinra go until he turns the corner into the other room, and then he turns his head again, tipping his chin so far down Shizuo can’t see his expression at all.

Shizuo frowns unseen. “Izaya-kun?”

“I can find the living room myself,” Izaya says to his feet without raising his head. “You can go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Shizuo doesn’t move. “What’s wrong?” he asks, still frowning at the dark of Izaya’s hair.

Izaya’s shoulders hunch in over his feet. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, but he’s still not looking up to meet Shizuo’s gaze.

“You’re acting weird,” Shizuo informs him. “I can ask Shinra to leave, if you don’t want to see him.”

“No,” Izaya says, dragging his shoe off and pushing it hard against the wall. His voice is still strained, still tense in the back of his throat like the stress visible along his shoulders is seeping into his tone. “It’s fine. I don’t care.” He braces a hand against the floor to push to his feet in a single fluid movement before Shizuo has a chance to react; he’s turning away down the hallway while Shizuo is still scrambling to his feet to follow, has his back turned by the time Shizuo has his balance back and can move forward to step out of the entryway. Izaya’s shoulders are like a wall, the dark of his hair falling against the back of his neck like armor; his gaze is often incomprehensible, his smile inscrutable, but like this Shizuo can’t even make an attempt at understanding, can’t even manage an initial guess at the cause of the tension so vivid along the curve of Izaya’s spine regardless of his verbal denial of it.

Shizuo never expected the line of Izaya’s shoulders to be so effective at keeping him at bay.


	9. Tension

Shizuo had hoped Izaya would be better in the morning. The other boy was uncharacteristically silent the entire evening, so distant and reserved that Shizuo wondered if he was feeling well and half-expected him to leave before dinner with some invented excuse. But he stayed through dinner, and for an hour afterwards, lingering until Shinra finally declared that he needed to go home and exited with the same precipitous haste with which he does anything, once he’s made up his mind to it. Shizuo had been almost relieved, had been expecting to turn his attention to Izaya and pick apart the cause for the strain still visibly taut across the other’s shoulders; but the front door had barely shut behind Shinra and Shizuo had barely opened his mouth to speak before Izaya had pushed to his feet all at once and declared that he was leaving almost without waiting for a response. He had pushed aside Shizuo’s offer of company on the way home, had kept his head down the whole time he was pulling his shoes on, and even when Shizuo called out after him “See you tomorrow!” he had gotten only a cut of dark eyes and a glimpse of the flat tension at Izaya’s mouth before the other had turned away and disappeared into the shadows of the night. Shizuo had worried about it for the rest of the evening, while he attempted unsuccessfully to distract himself with homework and then with the routine steps of heading to bed; finally he had managed to attain sleep only by telling himself it must be a fluke and that Izaya would be back to his normal self the next day at school.

He’s not. Izaya’s waiting when Shizuo gets out of class for lunch, sitting against the far wall of the hallway with his arms drawn around his knees and his eyes fixed on the floor, but he barely glances up to meet Shizuo’s gaze before he pushes to his feet and takes the lead to the roof without saying anything at all. Shizuo is left to struggle through conversation, to reiterate pointless comments about the night before to the unresponsive slouch of Izaya’s shoulders, and he’s doing his best but Izaya’s giving him nothing at all to work with, has gone as silent and stoic as if he’s the brick wall his lack of response makes him seem. He barely replies to Shizuo’s comments, only offering a snap of a response whenever Shizuo leaves himself particularly open for criticism, and even when they sit down against the wall alongside the door to the roof Izaya barely glances at Shizuo’s open lunch and makes no move at all to reach for it as he usually does. Shizuo takes a bite himself, barely noticing what he’s eating as he watches Izaya sideways from under his hair, but Izaya doesn’t look at him, doesn’t show any sign at all of noticing when Shizuo stretches out to take a second bite from the box, even though he’s usually certain to eat at least half of what Shizuo brings with him to school. Shizuo hesitates with his movement unfinished, his appetite dissolving under the weight of his frown, and finally he caves to the tension and asks “Aren’t you going to eat something?” without looking away from the dark of Izaya’s hair.

Izaya turns his head at that, but only enough to glance at the lunchbox before looking away again with a huff of air at his lips that’s a clear rejection even before he says, “I’m not hungry,” with so much aggression on the words to make the lie obvious even if Shizuo didn’t already know better. “And definitely not for _that_.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo snaps, and curls his fingers around the edge of the box to pull it back towards himself. He’s half-expecting a glance, maybe a laugh at this proof of his irritation; but Izaya just hunches his shoulders in farther over his knees, the curve of his spine stalling Shizuo’s efforts at speech more effectively than a glare would do. Shizuo is left to frown at Izaya’s shoulders as he takes another bite of food that he doesn’t taste, as his attention circles Izaya’s odd tension instead of his lunch, and finally he coughs into the quiet and asks, “Do you want to come over again tonight?” with his voice straining on uncomfortable concern.

Izaya glances back, just for a moment. Shizuo can see the dark of his lashes, the set of his jaw; then he turns away again, ducking his head back into invisibility and leaving Shizuo to frown hard at the back of his head instead.

“I have a lit assignment I have to get done,” Shizuo continues. Izaya still doesn’t look back, doesn’t so much as blink. Shizuo can feel tension collecting at his spine and unwinding up his back to knot itself to the beginning of heat across his shoulders. “You must have something you can work on.”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says, his voice strained and odd in his throat. “I might be busy tonight.”

“Don’t be _stupid_.” Shizuo’s fingers are tensing, reaching for the comfort of a fist, aching for the satisfaction of a fight. “What else do you have to do besides homework?”

“All kinds of things.” The words are harsh, strangely raw on the edges on some kind of emotion Shizuo can’t place. He still can’t see Izaya’s face. “You’re not the only person I spend time with, senpai.”

Shizuo opens his mouth. There’s a retort on his tongue, the rough edge of _yes I am_ falling fast on certainty; and something clicks into place in his head, some bright flash of understanding illuminating all his confusion like sunlight breaking over the horizon. He can call up the bright of Izaya’s smile on their way home together the day before, can think about how many times Izaya has just appeared when Shizuo was on his own as if he had been summoned, as if he had dropped everything to arrive at that exact moment. There’s the hunch of Izaya’s shoulders on the front step of Shizuo’s house, the strange tension under the smile he forced for Shinra, the way he had refused to leave before Shinra but left as soon as the other boy had, all the pieces of their interactions falling together to offer a single cohesive conclusion. It’s a ridiculous assumption to come to, an impossible contradiction to Izaya’s statement; but it fits too well, like a puzzle piece perfectly coordinated to pull together the surroundings blurs of color into a picture, and all the air leaves Shizuo’s lungs at once as he breathes “Fuck” with sudden understanding filling his thoughts. “Are you _jealous_?”

Izaya’s shoulders stiffen instantly, a jerk of response as good as confirmation if Shizuo needed confirmation, if he weren’t already absolutely certain of his conclusion. But “Why would I be jealous?” is what Izaya says, his voice trembling into a strange desperate range that Shizuo’s never heard from him before.

“Oh my god.” Shizuo tips back against the wall behind him and lifts a hand to cover his face. Everything is falling into place in his head now, the weight of epiphany eclipsing almost everything else, but there’s a pressure against the inside of his chest, an odd tinge of almost-guilt there for not having realized before that Izaya-- “Shinra’s my _friend_. _You’re_ my friend. People can have more than one at a time, you know.”

He means it to be an obvious statement. It _feels_ obvious on his tongue, like saying the sun will rise in the morning, like saying the night will inevitably give way to the dawn. But Izaya’s shoulders don’t ease, and he doesn’t turn back to meet Shizuo’s gaze, and Shizuo wonders if Izaya _didn’t_ know, if while Shizuo was alone in elementary school but for Shinra Izaya was truly alone, if Shizuo might not be Izaya’s first real friend.

“Jesus,” he sighs, his voice falling somewhere between the weight of resignation and a strange warmth in his chest at being so important to someone, at being so essential to another person. He pushes up off the wall, leaning forward and reaching out for the fall of dark hair at Izaya’s neck with as much care as he has ever used in doing anything before. His fingers brush warm skin, his hand slides up and into the dark of the other’s hair, and Izaya stiffens, his breath catching on surprise, but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, even though his heart is pounding too-fast in his chest and his fingers are trembling with the strain of maintaining unusual gentleness under his touch. Izaya’s hair catches at his fingers, softer and finer than Shizuo’s own, and Shizuo pushes his hand sideways in an awkward attempt at comfort before he draws back and ducks his head to look down at the open lunchbox between them.

“You’re a goddamn mess,” he says before glancing back up, just for a moment, to see the way Izaya has turned to look at him. Izaya’s eyes are wide, his entire expression knocked blank on absolute shock; his lips are parted, all the sharp edges Shizuo has come to recognize as part of his face melted away under the electricity of surprise. He looks younger than he usually does, like he might actually be the middle schooler he is. Shizuo looks down before Izaya does, reaching out for the lunch between them to push it back over the gap until it’s closer to the other boy’s reach than it is to his.

“I’m still your friend too.” Shizuo looks away from the lunch, back out to the line of the fence against the sky; he can feel his cheeks going warmer, can feel the flush of self-consciousness threatening to stain his expression with all the tells of embarrassment. Izaya’s still looking at him but Shizuo doesn’t turn his head to meet the other’s gaze; it’s hard enough to get the words he needs to say out without actively acknowledging the other boy’s attention to them. “I’m not going to abandon you or whatever it is you think I’m going to do.” He takes a breath and lets it out again in a rush. “Okay?”

There’s complete silence for a moment. Shizuo can feel self-consciousness taut along his spine, can feel the attempted casual curl of his fingers trembling up his whole arm. Then Izaya takes a breath, hard enough that Shizuo can hear it, and when he says “Whatever you say,” he sounds so completely himself again that Shizuo is breathing a sigh of relief even before he looks sideways to see the way Izaya is grinning at him. “I’m relying on you, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo can feel his face surge into flame, embarrassment breaking free to spill red all across his cheeks. “Oh, shut up,” he snaps, but Izaya just laughs, and Shizuo can’t fight back the tension of the answering smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth as Izaya reaches out for a bite from the open lunchbox.

Izaya keeps smiling through the rest of the break.


	10. Illuminating

Izaya’s home is more normal than Shizuo expects it to be.

He doesn’t know what exactly he _was_ expecting. Izaya’s scattered off-hand stories about his home life like breadcrumbs since the first day they spoke, delivering every statement with such a smirk or a trailing giggle that Shizuo has known better than to take the other at his word for even a moment. But he had been so dismissive of Shizuo’s home that Shizuo had been expecting...a mansion, maybe, or an apartment in the expensive streets of the city’s downtown, something exotic and strange enough to explain away the odd bright behind Izaya’s eyes and the manic energy that he seems to carry like electricity in his veins. Shizuo doesn’t even realize that he’s anticipating something unusual until Izaya cuts himself off mid-sentence with “Here,” blurted like a command as he pivots off the main street, and then he has to hesitate a moment before he can even bring his focus around to the stunningly ordinary house in front of them. There’s nothing to distinguish it from the adjacent home at all; even the nameplate by the front is generic, bland and inoffensive as the clean walkway, the untouched planters out front, the windows empty of any sign of human habitation other than the blinds drawn shut over the glass. Shizuo blinks, frowning at his own confusion, and then he has to jog to catch up to Izaya as the other pulls his keys out of his pocket. There’s a strange tension across Izaya’s shoulders, some suggestion of that hunch that Shizuo hasn’t seen since the other came over to his own home; but there’s only a moment for him to pay attention to the duck of Izaya’s head and the rattle of the keys in his hand before Izaya is pushing the door open and declaring “My humble abode” with a strange slur of mockery on the words as he steps forward into the interior.

Shizuo doesn’t realize, right away, why he hesitates. There’s something straining in his chest, an odd anxiety it takes him a moment to place; and then Izaya reaches sideways without looking for the lightswitch, and it’s only as the illumination spreads to glow in the entryway that Shizuo realizes it was absent in the first place, that it was the darkness of the house that was in such opposition to his expectations. There’s nothing to see even with the light on; the entryway is empty, what little of the hallway Shizuo can see as barren as the planters and the front windows of the house, and Shizuo hesitates on the front step, his instincts flinching back from entering a space that seems so completely unoccupied as to be more a facade that a real home.

It’s Izaya’s voice that breaks him from his distraction, that brings Shizuo blinking back to reality with an embarrassed rush of self-consciousness. “Do I need to invite you in like a vampire, senpai?” Shizuo looks back to Izaya but the other isn’t looking at him; he has his head ducked instead, is watching his feet as if the act of kicking his shoes off requires as much focus as he can bring to it. The house still looks empty, almost abandoned; but Izaya isn’t hesitating, looks as comfortable as he ever does but for the strain across his shoulders, and he’s had that the whole way back from school. Shizuo obeys the not-quite-spoken suggestion, stepping in over the threshold and into the dim-lit silence of the house; when he pushes the door shut behind them the quiet is only more oppressive, as if he’s shut out the rest of the world to leave only the two of them in existence anywhere.

The answer to his question is obvious, clear in the dark hallways and the silence from the rest of the house, but Shizuo asks it anyway, just because the obvious conclusion seems almost impossible for him to fathom. “Isn’t anyone home?”

“Oh no,” Izaya says, his voice skidding out sharply before he coughs and resumes his usual amused lilt. “My sisters won’t be home from preschool for another hour.”

Shizuo blinks. He hadn’t even known Izaya had sisters at all. The idea is strangely jarring, like missing a step at the top of the stairs. When he looks back Izaya is watching him from under his hair, his eyes unreadable in the dim lighting of the entryway. “What about your mom?”

“Business trip.” Izaya looks back down to his shoes, hiding his eyes behind the angle of his lashes as he carefully works his foot free. “We have the place to ourselves. Exciting, isn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he’s leaving his shoes by the entryway and turning towards the stairs to climb the span of them without taking the time to turn on another light or give Shizuo a chance to react.

“Wait,” Shizuo growls. He kicks at his shoes, struggling himself free of them before he turns to bolt up the darkened stairs after Izaya. “You’re all alone in this house?”

“Sure.” Izaya’s voice sounds strained, like he’s fighting for breath even though his pace up the stairs is far slower than the rush Shizuo has made to catch up to him; even in the dark Shizuo can see the tension in his shoulders. “I can take care of myself.”

Shizuo frowns unseen at the back of Izaya’s shoulders, at the defensive hunch forming along the other boy’s spine, and the tone in Izaya’s voice says he should drop the subject but there’s a pressure in his chest, a strange tangle of sympathy and worry that’s knotting in his throat and refusing to let him remain silent. “What about your sisters?”

“They’re twins,” Izaya says, and that wasn’t what Shizuo had meant but Izaya is taking the lead down a hallway so dark Shizuo can barely see the edge of the banister running along the top of the stairs and he has to focus on not tripping as he follows the slightly darker silhouette of Izaya’s shoulders against the grey. “They’re only four, they spend most of their day at preschool. I’m sure we can find something to eat for dinner when they get here.” He opens the door to a room Shizuo can barely see, moving to flick on the light just inside the doorway; Shizuo flinches from the sudden burst of illumination, his eyes protesting the sharp edge of light against the dark silence of the rest of the house.

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo protests as he blinks painful brightness from his eyes and brings his attention back to focus on the tension in Izaya’s shoulders as he tosses his bag onto his chair, watching the strain clear across the whole line of the other’s back as Shizuo continues to push on what he knows he should leave alone, as he keeps pressing for information he thinks he’d rather not know. But the dark of the house is like a weight on his shoulders, pressing down on him with a loneliness so strong he can feel it like it’s his own, and Izaya still has his back turned like he’s carrying a shadow in the line of his spine and the curve of his shoulders. Shizuo can imagine the warmth of his own house, the calm sound of Kasuka’s voice greeting his “I’m home” as he comes in the front door or his mother calling to him from the kitchen, all the normal comforts of home that he takes for granted, that overlay the dark silence of Izaya’s house like an unspoken judgment. “Doesn’t anyone care what you _do_?”

Izaya coughs a laugh. It’s shrill against the quiet of the empty house, loud and so raw at the edges it sounds almost more like a sob than real amusement, sounds painful even before the other turns to fix Shizuo with a stare so vicious it might as well be a slap in the face.

“Of course they don’t,” Izaya spits, his mouth curling on the words like he’s honing them to a razor edge, framing them into mocking laughter for Shizuo’s foolishness in ever thinking anything else. His hands are curling at his sides, his fingers working like he’s thinking about making a fist or trying to grasp the handle of some absent weapon; Shizuo can see the strain in the angle of his fingers as clearly as the expectation of violence hunching along Izaya’s shoulders. “Why _should_ they?”

Shizuo can feel the surge of anger hit him. It’s like a wave, a rush of adrenaline that lances into his blood like electricity to tense in his shoulders and rush his breathing faster in his chest. It’s impossible to avoid, impossible to restrain with Izaya staring at him like he is, with his mouth dragging into that taunt of a grin and his shoulders hunched forward as if any amount of bracing himself would hold him steady against the full weight of Shizuo’s punch. He’s throwing his words like knives, like they’re a joke, like the idea that anyone could possibly give a damn about his existence is too absurd to even be borne. Shizuo wants to smack him, wants to shove Izaya back against the wall of his cluttered bedroom and shake him until he takes back the sincerity on his words, until he apologizes for so casually dismissing his own worth, for so easily brushing aside what he should demand, what he should _expect_ from his family. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his eyes dipping to black for just a moment; and his gaze drops, his attention falling to Shizuo’s hands at his sides. Shizuo can see his smile flicker away, can see his lips part on a sigh that’s a little bit resignation and a little bit expectation, like he _wants_ Shizuo to hit him, like he’s just standing there waiting for the pain of a blow to fall. Izaya’s forehead creases, his throat works on a swallow; and Shizuo opens his mouth, and says “I do,” instead of swinging into the relief of violence laid tense all along his spine.

Izaya looks up at once. His eyes are wide, visibly startled by Shizuo speaking; the light from overhead catches his eyes as he lifts his chin to meet Shizuo’s gaze, bringing out the shading of scarlet behind the dark of his lashes and the fall of his hair. Shizuo can feel the strain of irritation still taut across his shoulders, still tense in his knuckles; it takes a conscious effort of will to ease his hands, to breathe out slowly enough to let the adrenaline go, and when he speaks the effort is audible in his voice and drags his speech into a far lower range than he intends it to be. “Okay?”

Izaya tenses. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his shoulders tip back and away; Shizuo hadn’t even realized Izaya was leaning in towards him before. It’s as if the promise of a blow was magnetic but the force of words is enough to shove him back physically, like violence was alluring but gentleness of speech forces him into defensiveness. His forehead creases, his eyes narrow; for a moment Shizuo thinks Izaya might be about to hit him, might be about to lash out with the unreadable tension straining all across his shoulders. But then:

“Fine,” Izaya manages, his voice only barely catching on the word. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to clear his vision of sunspots, his mouth twisting on some emotion too repressed for Shizuo to interpret. “You can do whatever you want, senpai, I don’t care.”

He’s lying. There’s no question of it in Shizuo’s mind; it’s crystal clear in the fists Izaya’s still making at his sides, in the audible quaver in his voice, in the shadows in his eyes that look a little like tears if Shizuo looks too close. But Shizuo can feel his shoulders relaxing, can feel the anger in him easing like the tide rolling back out to sea, and when he takes a breath he can feel it come easier in his chest, like the loss of his frustration has taken some of the sharp-pain sympathy with it too.

“Good,” he says, and turns away to give Izaya a moment to blink back the damp in his eyes, to reconstruct whatever mask he wants to put on for the purposes of the evening. The room is cluttered, visibly lived-in like it’s singlehandedly making up for the rest of the house; Shizuo’s attention flickers from a stack of books to the tangle of the unmade bedsheets to the array of tiles spread out over a game board set close to the floor, and lands on the last as the best option for a conversational tangent. “Are you playing shogi?”

It’s an obvious subject change. If Izaya wanted to call him out on it Shizuo is sure it would take no effort at all. But he huffs a laugh instead, and offers the quick bite of an insult with some of his usual tone back in his voice, and when Shizuo growls a response Izaya just smiles at him and draws him into a game before Shizuo has quite realized what is happening.

He doesn’t really mind, even if Izaya seems to be making up the rules of the game as he goes and spends as much time laughing at Shizuo’s mistakes as making his own moves. It’s easy to forget about the quiet dark of the rest of the house with both of them together to fill up this corner of it.


	11. Caring

Shizuo is distracted the whole walk back to his house. It’s dark by the time he leaves Izaya and his sisters Mairu and Kururi to take care of themselves for the rest of the night; the sun has vanished below the city skyline and the light of day is fading fast with each block Shizuo crosses. He has his head down, his attention lost in the spin of his own thoughts; he’s so distracted that he doesn’t see the handful of attackers that come to circle around him, that declare themselves with the mocking laugh of a challenge when he’s still a mile from home. That does provide a brief interlude for the few minutes it takes for him to leave them all groaning or unconscious on the sidewalk, but even the frustration that always comes with violence melts away within seconds of leaving them behind. Shizuo’s thoughts keep circling back to the strain in Izaya’s shoulders as they climbed the other’s dim-lit staircase, keep hovering around the confused tension in his face when Shizuo tried to offer reassurance instead of aggression. It was better when the twins showed up -- there’s always more than enough to stay distracted when young kids are around, Shizuo has found, and with two at once his hands were full enough that he didn’t pay attention to what Izaya was doing in the kitchen. It’s not until he thinks back on it now that he realizes how empty the room was as well as the rest of the house, that he considers that the random assortment of items Izaya came back with might be from a lack of other options rather than unwillingness to bother further with the effort of producing dinner. He wants to reject the idea, wants to find evidence to contradict his conclusion so he can push it away with certainty; but it latches in against the inside of his chest, gaining more force with every moment he considers it instead of lightening, and by the time he pushes open the front door to his home he can feel the ache of sympathy more clearly than the bruise rising on his jaw from his brief fight.

“I’m home,” he calls without looking up from the process of working his shoes off. There’s no one in the hallway but there’s a glow of light from the kitchen, and he’s only just pushed the door closed when his mother’s voice calls “Welcome home!” from the other side of the house. It makes Shizuo smile, the familiarity of the back-and-forth easing some of the uncomfortable strain in his chest, and when he steps out of the entryway it’s to head down the hall towards the kitchen instead of up the stairs to his room.

His mother is in the middle of cooking when he comes around the doorway into the kitchen. There’s a pair of lunchboxes out on the counter and a pan on the stove; as Shizuo comes closer to peer into the still-empty boxes she looks back over her shoulder to flash a smile in his direction.

“Welcome back,” she says, turning to the pan as she pours a bowlful of eggs into it. They hiss as they hit the metal, cooking on contact with the heat; there’s a rattle as she drags the pan across the burner to coat the surface evenly before turning back around to grant Shizuo her full attention. “Do you have any homework to finish tonight?”

Shizuo shakes his head. He’s not looking at his mother; his attention is caught by the weight of the pan on the stove and the curl of steam rising from the eggs as they cook. “I did it all at school before I went over to Izaya-kun’s.”

“He’s the other boy in the club with you, isn’t he?” his mother asks without looking up from the vegetables she’s cutting over the counter.

“Yeah.” Shizuo braces his elbow against the counter so he can lean against the support of his hands. “He has siblings too. Two little sisters, twins.”

“That’s unusual,” his mother hums, audibly distracted by what she’s doing. “Are they young?”

“They’re four.”

Shizuo’s mother smiles down at the counter. “They must be a handful.”

“Yeah.” Shizuo reaches for one of the empty lunchboxes on the counter to hook his fingers around the edge and slide it idly towards him. “They were a lot to deal with.”

“It’s nice to have a house full of children,” his mother goes on, her smile still warm against the corners of her mouth. “I wouldn’t say no to a few more girls myself.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes at this too-familiar complaint. “Yeah, thanks mom.”

“Not that I don’t love my boys,” she says, looking up to smile at him. Her gaze slides across his face and catches at his jaw as something flickers behind her eyes. “Did you get in a fight again?”

Shizuo can feel his shoulders hunch towards his ears, can feel his whole body curl in on itself like he’s trying to hide in plain sight. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles down at the counter. “I didn’t see them coming until they were on me.”

“Mm.” There’s a touch against Shizuo’s hair, a hand catching at his head to tip him sideways and up to the light; Shizuo capitulates to the force without raising his eyes, letting his mother consider the bruise he can feel aching along his jaw. “I’ll get you some ice to keep the swelling down.”

“It’s fine,” Shizuo says, but he’s moving away anyway, knows better than to try to talk his mother out of nursing even his minor injuries back to health. “I’ll get it.” It only takes a moment to find one of the ice packs in the freezer -- a necessity more for Shizuo’s bruises than for keeping actual food items cold -- and by the time Shizuo has returned to his position over the counter his mother is leaning over the stove again as she rolls the cooking eggs over onto themselves. Shizuo presses the ice against his jaw, feels the comfort of the chill spread out to numb the faint hurt of the swelling rising under his skin, and then he takes a breath to speak just as his mother pulls the pan off the stove. “Can you make an extra lunch for me tomorrow?”

His mother glances back at him, her attention only momentarily pulled away from what she’s doing by surprise. “Sure,” she says, but Shizuo can hear confusion under her voice even as she slides the cooked eggs out onto the plate next to her. “Are you still hungry after finishing your first one?”

“Oh,” Shizuo says. “No. It’s fine.” He ducks his head farther down so his hair falls into a curtain in front of his face as he drags the empty lunchbox across the counter with the tips of his fingers. “I share a lot of mine with Izaya-kun most days.”

“Oh,” his mother says. Shizuo doesn’t look up. There’s a brief pause, the silence weighted with the question Shizuo knows is coming well before his mother actually puts voice to it. “He doesn’t have one of his own?”

“He never brings a lunchbox.” Shizuo can feel his mouth drawing into a scowl, can feel the tension of the expression aching against his bruised jaw. “And I’ve never seen him buy something to eat.”

Shizuo can hear concern under his mother’s voice when she speaks again, knows without looking up that her forehead will be creasing on secondhand worry. “What does he do when you’re not there?”

Shizuo shrugs without looking up. It’s not a question he likes to think about and one he can’t avoid any more than he can help noticing how thin Izaya’s shoulders are and how fragile his wrists look every time he braces himself into one of the reckless tilts he likes to take out of windows or over fencetops. It always makes his chest knot uncomfortably, makes his throat feel weird and raw until it’s hard to catch a breath; now, with the darkness of Izaya’s empty house in the back of his head, the weight is only worse, the pressure of sympathy only tighter in him.

“Okay,” his mother says, her voice carefully gentle in that way she sometimes gets when Shizuo starts to tense up on frustration. Shizuo flinches from the sound of it, looks up with an apology on his lips; but she’s not cringing away from him, isn’t even watching him anymore. She’s turned back around to the plate, apparently completely willing to dedicate her focus to what she’s doing while incidentally giving him a moment to compose himself with no audience. “No problem, I can make three lunches just as easily as two. I can’t have growing boys going hungry on my watch.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo agrees, relief heavy on his tongue. “Thanks, mom.”

“Of course.” His mother turns to reach for one of the lunchboxes out on the counter to move it to the other side of the kitchen without looking at Shizuo’s expression. “I’ll have them both ready for you in the morning. You should take a shower and head to bed, it’s getting late.”

“Sure,” Shizuo says, relieved as much by the excuse to leave the lingering strain of the conversation as by the idea of the comfort a shower will offer. “I will.”

He lets his hold on the lunchbox go and moves towards the door, still pressing the ice pack against the bruise on his face; he’s nearly to the hallway when his mother says “Shizuo,” with the off-hand calm that always makes Shizuo’s spine tense in anticipation of something dramatic. He hesitates at the door, glancing back over his shoulder to frown uncertainty at his mother’s back. “What is it?”

“Does Orihara-kun like anything in particular to eat?” She hasn’t looked up from the counter; as far as Shizuo can tell her whole attention is on the careful cuts she’s making in the cooked egg. “It’s a bit late for shopping tonight, but I’m going to be picking up more groceries tomorrow if there’s something he prefers.”

Shizuo can feel his face warm with embarrassment in spite of the chill of the ice pack against his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admits. “He always eats everything you usually make for me.”

“Alright.” His mother lifts the plate and starts sliding slices of egg into the empty lunchbox. “If he mentions anything let me know.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shizuo says. “I’m going to take that shower. ‘Night,” and he turns to escape down the hallway before his mother gives him any more questions to field.

He’s still blushing when he shuts the door to the bathroom behind him, but when he glances in the mirror his smile is as least as bright as his embarrassment.


	12. Disregard

Shizuo hates fights.

It’s truer than his behavior might make it seem. He does hate them, hates the constant weight of his own strength bearing down on his awareness and the knowledge that a stranger on the street has at least even odds of being a gang member trying to prove himself rather than just another passerby. He hates the way his whole body hurts afterwards, hates the color of drying blood flaking off torn-open knuckles and the way he can never find a source for most of the bruises that mark his skin like tokens of his true nature that don’t have time to fade before there’s another set to take their place. He hates it, hates it with a deep-down loathing as hot in him as the blood in his veins, and most of all he hates that in the middle of a fight, in the immediate rush of adrenaline through his too-strong body, he sometimes forgets to hate it at all. It’s not his fault, he thinks; he can barely recall his actions after the fact, he certainly can’t help the surge of vicious satisfaction that rushes through him when he turns to meet an attacker with balled-up knuckles that stop their forward momentum dead in its tracks. He hates the aftereffects, hates the chill absence of adrenaline as it flickers and fades from his body, and he just hates it the more for the sense of loss that always comes with it, as if he’s falling back into a hazy sleep after being briefly, incandescently alive for a few moments. It’s nauseating to think about, horrifying to even acknowledge how brilliantly _present_ he feels when he’s fighting; but even if he can avoid thinking about it most of the time it’s impossible to ignore in the last few heartbeats of a fight, when his opponents are still around him and there’s no time to do anything but brace himself against the hangover of normalcy rushing towards him as adrenaline releases its fever-bright hold on him.

“We’ll be back,” the last of his opponents spits this time, a threat so half-formed Shizuo barely bothers listening to the meaning under the words. “We’ll remember you. You’ll regret making an enemy of Blue Square, kid.”

Shizuo doesn’t bother reaching for words. Coherency is too hard when he feels like this, when there’s nothing but rage flaring to an open flame in his veins; easier to let the adrenaline speak for him, easier to let the edge of fury grab at the top of his spine and shake him into narrowed eyes and bared teeth. He isn’t expecting to make the sound he does -- a low rumble of noise so far back in his chest he can feel it resonate at his teeth as it spills past his lips -- but he wouldn’t try to stop it if he could. He’s ready to lunge forward, ready to ride the crest of another wave of adrenaline to crush the resistance in this enemy into the pavement in front of him; but the man does what they all do, what Shizuo should have expected he would do, and turns tail to run for the main street with the alacrity of an animal fleeing certain death. Something in Shizuo’s mind purrs satisfaction, growling victory in a range as easily understood as the other’s instinctive panic; but he can feel the tension in him easing, can feel the first edge of pain starting to whisper at the back of his mind, and he’s just breathing himself back into rationality when there’s a voice from the edge of the field of destruction, a high taunting lilt that Shizuo is rapidly learning to expect as a matter of course at the end of his fights.

“Another one down.” Izaya’s coming forward without any sign of hesitation either for Shizuo’s fallen attackers or the lingering frustration Shizuo knows is all over his face; he’s not even watching his feet as he maneuvers around the shapes littering the alley. He’s watching Shizuo instead, his head tipped to the side and lips pulling on a smile sharp enough to cut the bright of sincerity into his eyes, when Shizuo thinks to look for it. “Soon every major crime organization in the city will have a vendetta against you, senpai. Congratulations.”

Shizuo narrows his eyes at the other boy. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Izaya raises a shoulder in an off-hand shrug. “I heard the fight from a few blocks away.” He’s coming closer still, past the last of Shizuo’s attackers and into the clear space marking out a circle around the other boy; there’s no visible hesitation in his stride, no flicker of fear anywhere in his expression. “Too bad I missed the best part of it.”

“ _Best_.” Shizuo reaches up to shove the sweat-damp of his hair back from his face. “You’re really fucked up, you know that?” There’s an ache across the back of his hand, the protest of an injury making itself known; when he looks down there’s blood across his fingers, drying sticky over his knuckles and smeared over his palm. “You shouldn’t be here, you’ll get yourself hurt.”

“Says the one bleeding onto the street.” Shizuo fixes Izaya with a glare but the other’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker; he’s still smiling, still looking utterly at ease amid the remnants of the violence Shizuo’s own hands have wrought, as if Shizuo couldn’t swing a fist and break his collarbone, as if Shizuo isn’t a barely-restrained source of danger that could go off like a bomb at any time. “I can take care of myself, senpai.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo snaps. His hand aches again; he can see the cut scabbing itself closed, the blood starting to dry to the beginnings of healing. He makes a fist just to spite his own body, watches the cut reopen to trickle blood across his skin. At least it’s his own, this time; he’s not sure the rest of the color across his hands is all from his own injuries. “I could break you with one hand.”

He means it as a warning, means it as self-deprecation, an insult turned in on himself as a reminder of what he could do, what might happen if Izaya is too close the next time he loses his temper, if Izaya is the one to cause him to snap. But Izaya huffs a sound like a laugh, and when Shizuo glances up at him Izaya’s eyes are dark under his lashes, his mouth dragging onto a smile that still, even now, shows none of the fear Shizuo knows he deserves.

“Probably,” he purrs, and even that sounds hot, more like a laugh or a suggestion than admission of the danger Shizuo presents to him. “You’d have to catch me first, though.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale, startled into reaction by pure surprise at this comeback. “You’d just be running, that’s not a fight.”

Izaya’s smile pulls wider. “You can’t win if you can’t catch me” and he’s moving, tipping in so close Shizuo falls back reflexively just to keep Izaya from running into him bodily. He’s still trying to catch his balance when Izaya’s hand comes up, when there’s a jolt of pain at his forehead as Izaya flicks at him, and hard on the heels of the pain is a murmur of adrenaline, the beginnings of irritation purring hopefully along his spine as he hisses and lifts a hand to press against the possibility of a bruise. He frowns at the other boy, opens his mouth to growl a warning, but Izaya’s moving back again, skipping light over his steps to regain a comfortable gap between them as he goes on talking. “Besides, just because you don’t indulge in weapons doesn’t mean no one else does.”

Shizuo is still blinking confusion at this when Izaya’s hand snaps out of his pocket, the speed of his motion so startling that Shizuo flinches back before he has a good look at the other’s hand. There’s a rush of adrenaline spiking in him, locking all his limbs into the expectation of pain, of violence, of a need for self-defense; and then his vision focuses on Izaya’s hand, on the loose curl of his fingers around nothing at all, and he hisses, the tension in him turning his exhale of relief into a growl even as Izaya’s voice cracks into the high, manic edge that always characterizes his laughter. Shizuo looks up to glare at Izaya, to glower the anger that from him always means danger at the other, but even when he takes a step forward to make threat into reality there’s no fear in Izaya’s eyes, nothing but amusement as he skips backwards by a step without looking.

“Did you think I actually had something?” he asks, swinging his hand wide as if he really is holding a knife, as if there is something in his hand to warrant the angle of his wrist that would be a threat with more behind it but the fragility of his fingers. “Senpai, really, you have to get better at judging people. Where would I get a _knife_?”

“Anywhere.” Shizuo reaches out fast, grabbing at the arc of motion Izaya is marking out with his hand; Izaya’s wrist smacks hard against his palm, his fingers close tight around the narrow line of the other’s arm to stall the teasing motion the other is making, but Izaya doesn’t seem at all perturbed by Shizuo’s hold. He just smiles up at him, that strange sharp-edged expression that never touches the dark in his eyes, and lets the whole weight of his arm hang against Shizuo’s grip. It makes Shizuo’s frown dig deeper at the corners of his mouth, tenses his forehead farther on a crease of frustration as his fingers tighten against Izaya’s skin. “From wherever you go that you’re not supposed to be.”

“I go a _lot_ of places I shouldn’t, senpai.” Izaya’s voice turns the words nearly flirtatious, dipping them over heat in the back of his throat as he tips his head to stare shadows up at Shizuo. “Can’t you be more specific?”

Shizuo groans surrender, rolls his eyes in irritated capitulation even before he says “ _No_ ” and drops Izaya’s wrist to fall back to the other’s side. “I don’t know where the hell you go half the time. You’re going to get yourself hurt if you keep playing with this part of the city.”

Izaya doesn’t appear particularly concerned. He just laughs again, his mouth tensing on that lopsided smile that just goes the wider when Shizuo glares at him. “I’m not the one getting into fistfights in the middle of Ikebukuro.” He lifts his chin to look out over the array of unconscious forms littering the ground around them; there’s a strange dismissiveness to his gaze, as if he’s looking down on the fallen bodies from a much greater height than he is, as if he would be better framed at the top of a building, or higher still, among the uncaring clouds drifting past overhead. It’s as if he’s not even seeing the splashes of blood soaking into the concrete, as if he doesn’t even notice the tension of potential danger straining irritation against Shizuo’s shoulders. “You’ll get expelled before you even take your high school entrance exams if you keep acting like a delinquent, Shizuo-senpai.”

“I’m _not_ \--” _a delinquent_ , Shizuo wants to say. _Your senpai_ might be more accurate; he hardly feels deserving of respect at the moment, at least, with the title turning to laughter on Izaya’s tongue and the other clearly far more in control of himself than Shizuo feels even now, with the dregs of his fading anger left to fade to bitter regret in his veins. It’s almost jealousy dragging at the corners of his mouth as he frowns at Izaya, like the other boy has somehow stolen Shizuo’s calm and made his own armor of it. “They _attacked_ me. It’s not like I came out here to pick a fight.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “You always say that,” he says, as thoughtfully as if he’s really thinking over the words. “Funny how you always end up in one anyway.”

“I don’t _want_ to be.” Shizuo can feel himself scowling, can feel the weight of irritation hunching against his shoulders like a burden too much even for him to bear. Izaya is still slouching into comfort in front of him, his hands slack and easy at his sides; there’s a shadow along one wrist, just under the hem of his sleeve. Shizuo stares at it for a moment, trying to place the reason for the darkness; and then he understands at once, as he fits together the pattern of a rising bruise into the shape of his fingerprints, the afterimage of his casual hold at the other’s arm moments ago rising to the surface to speak to the damage he does even accidentally. He flinches away from it, looking out to the main street instead of keeping his gaze on Izaya’s skin, but it’s not like it makes a difference; he can still feel the weight of responsibility in his own fingers, can feel guilt settle atop what he’s already carrying like it’s trying to crush his much-broken bones under a truly unbearable weight. He wonders how many other times he’s left bruises on Izaya’s wrists, how much hurt he’s given without even trying to, without even thinking about it. When he speaks it’s soft, almost a whisper, as much voice for his own aching heart as it is for the conversation. “I hate this.”

“That doesn’t really matter.”

Izaya’s voice is clear and loud enough that it nearly echoes off the walls of the surrounding buildings. Shizuo blinks, startled out of his own inner monologue by this casual rejection of his misery; when he looks back Izaya is grinning at him, his eyes sparkling dark without any trace of the sympathy Shizuo half-expected to see there. “It’s not like it’s going to stop happening just because you want it to. Are you really planning to spend the rest of your life moping about a fact of your existence you can’t change?” Izaya’s head tips, his hair falls clear of his eyes; the sunlight catches the dark of them to pull the shadows away and flare them to scarlet. “Or are you going to embrace what you really are?”

Shizuo stares at the color bleeding into Izaya’s eyes, at the flash of his smile in the sunlight. “Which is?”

Izaya lifts his arms from his sides, drawing them out to take up space in the world like he’s unfurling wings from along his spine. “Do I have to say it again?”

Shizuo can see the prints of his fingers on Izaya’s skin, the shadow of his hold bruising to visibility against the delicate line of the other’s outstretched wrist. “You’re telling me to accept that I’m a monster.”

“It’s better than hating yourself, isn’t it?” Izaya’s smile pulls wider as he turns on his heel, swinging his weight out into an arc to start to move away while his arms are still extended into the open air. He takes a step towards the main street, his hands falling back to relaxation at his sides, and Shizuo moves without thinking, following the angle of Izaya’s shoulders as much as the unanswered question in the air.

“I don’t hate myself,” he says, but the words come out flat and meaningless on his tongue even as he says them, sounding so unconvincing he’s cringing back from their insincerity even before Izaya answers.

“I know you do.” He doesn’t look back; he’s speaking to the street, speaking to the air, as if he doesn’t care if Shizuo is listening, as if he knows the other is there without needing to look for him. “It’s alright though. I don’t hate you, even if you are a monster.”

Shizuo can feel his spine prickle, a chill of surprise with flushing embarrassment following hard on its heels. His gaze drops back to Izaya’s wrist, to the bruise he left there without thought or intention either one. It feels like a black mark in his mind, like a weight of guilt against his shoulders; but Izaya is brushing it away as if it doesn’t matter at all, as if all the burden of Shizuo’s accumulated guilt is feather-light against the casual wave of his hand.

Shizuo isn’t sure if he’s more offended or touched by the disregard, but he feels lighter already.


	13. Epiphany

Shizuo is really starting to worry about Izaya.

It was bad enough before, when all he had to think about were inconveniently open windows or the chest-high mesh of the fence around the school rooftop. There aren’t that many places high enough to fall from in the span of Shizuo’s daily life, and even with Izaya’s determination to actively seek those out it’s not impossible to keep an eye on him to prevent an accident. But Izaya still insists on appearing at the least opportune moments, when Shizuo is the middle of or just finishing a fight and still glowing all-over with anger and lingering adrenaline looking for an outlet, as if the danger Shizuo’s strength offers is just another ledge for him to climb onto. Fights have at least become less common with the advent of winter -- even the gangs don’t want much to do with the outdoors when it’s as cold as Christmas this year proved to be -- but the weather has brought with it an entirely new concern that Shizuo didn’t even think to contemplate. Izaya showed up the day after Christmas in response to Shizuo’s invitation without anything more substantial than a shirt and jeans on and so visibly cold that he couldn’t even manage a smirk when Shizuo had opened the door and blurted “Where’s your _coat_?” in the first shock. At least the house is warm, as soon as Shizuo got Izaya into the entryway and shut the door behind him, and it was easy enough to deposit the other boy under the kotatsu to shiver himself back to warmth while Shizuo went to poke at the thermostat in an attempt to raise the temperature by a few degrees without his parents noticing. By the time he came back a little of the color had returned to Izaya’s face, and if he was still shaking it was with less of the helpless force he showed originally, and Shizuo felt reasonably secure in leaving him alone for the few minutes it took him to brew a pot of tea to act as a second step in the keep-Orihara-Izaya-from-freezing plan. He comes back five minutes after he left with a cup of tea in each hand to find Izaya curled in over the kotatsu, his shoulders tipped forward over the surface and his hands under the warmth of the edge along with his legs.

“Tea,” Shizuo says shortly, coming into the room and kicking the door mostly-shut behind him for what added warmth the enclosed space will grant them. “You should drink this.”

“Wow,” Izaya drawls, looking up as Shizuo comes forward to set down a cup by the other’s elbow. “Really, senpai, you’re too good to me.”

“Be quiet,” Shizuo says, but it’s hard to find any real irritation for the words; he’s too relieved to see the proof of the other’s increasing comfort in the shadows reinstated behind Izaya’s eyes and the drag of his mouth on his usual smirk. “Move over, I need space on my side too.”

“Did your mother never teach you to say please?” Izaya wants to know, but he shifts minimally as Shizuo sets the other cup of tea down on the far side of the kotatsu and sits to slide his feet in under the blanket around the edge. It’s warm under the surface, the radiance of the heater spreading out to ease the constant tension along Shizuo’s spine that comes with the winter cold, but Shizuo barely fits his knees under the blanket before his feet bump against Izaya’s shins angled wide to occupy the warmest spots over the heater.

“Move over,” he repeats, growling the words across the table at the other boy. “You’re taking up all the foot space.”

“I’m _cold_ ,” Izaya pouts, dragging the last word into a whine as he lets his knee fall farther into Shizuo’s space. “Some of us are still affected by unreasonably low temperatures. You really should be more considerate of those less inhumanly sturdy than yourself.”

Shizuo frowns. “I’m cold too.” He kicks against Izaya’s foot, aiming for gentle force but landing harder than he intends. Izaya still doesn’t move. “You’re the one who decided to walk over here without a jacket.”

“I don’t like any of mine.” Izaya pulls his feet back to give ground for Shizuo’s legs. Shizuo sighs satisfaction and stretches out into the space; and Izaya kicks his feet right back out, letting his heels drop hard against the tops of Shizuo’s knees. “If I had a jacket I liked I’d wear it all the time.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “That’s a stupid reason.” He reaches down to grab at Izaya’s ankles and shift them sideways by an inch, just enough to free his knees from the uncomfortable ache of pressure against them before he lets Izaya’s legs remain where they are. It’s still not completely comfortable -- Izaya’s feet against his legs are like ice even through the layers of clothing between them -- but Izaya just curls his toes in against the support of Shizuo’s body and Shizuo doesn’t try to push him away. “You could have taken it off as soon as you got here and you wouldn’t have shown up half-frozen.”

“I’m warming up.” Izaya looks up at Shizuo and flutters his lashes into overstated gratitude. “Thanks to my devoted senpai nursing me back from the brink of hypothermia.”

Shizuo frowns at him. “Next time I’ll shut the door in your face and leave you to freeze.” He reaches out for Izaya’s cup of tea to push it closer towards the other boy before drawing his own in towards himself and attempting a sip. It burns pleasant heat against the back of his throat and down into his chest as he swallows; he can feel the knot of frustrated worry in him easing with the warmth, undoing itself into languid comfort instead of the harsh edge of concern that first met Izaya’s shivering arrival. Shizuo looks down at the liquid in his cup, feels the ache of lingering worry pressing against his breathing, and when he speaks it’s far more gently, soft and low enough to carry all his pent-up concern from the last months of high-anxiety friendship. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep being so reckless all the time.”

“You’re right,” Izaya says, sounding so completely calm that for a moment Shizuo thinks he’s serious and looks up and across the table in surprise at what sounds like surrender. But Izaya’s still grinning, his mouth still caught on that unvoiced laugh, and his eyes are dark against Shizuo’s hand and the bandage holding immobile fingers bruised in one of those rare fights. “I should really strive to be more calm and composed like you, senpai.”

All Shizuo’s calm evaporates like a blown-out candle, anger hissing itself to action in his veins. His fingers tense, his knuckles aching at the force, and it takes a conscious effort of will to breathe past the weight of fury threatening his composure, takes as much strength as he has to make his hand ease out of its first impulsive tension.

“Go to hell,” he sighs, while Izaya’s still grinning at his bandaged hand like poking Shizuo to anger is a source of entertainment instead of the equivalent of playing with nitroglycerin and lit matches. “I’m trying to help you. Why do you always insist on being such a pain?”

“It’s my nature,” Izaya smiles, and turns his foot to force uncomfortable pressure against Shizuo’s leg. Shizuo flinches from the hurt but Izaya’s grin just pulls the wider, like he’s toying with a laugh in the back of his throat as he lifts his cup of tea to his lips. “Do you usually demonstrate your concern by threatening to lock someone out of your home?”

“Only with you.” Shizuo shifts his legs free of the sharp-edged weight of Izaya’s, letting the other’s feet drop to the floor so he can kick his own atop them and pin the chill of Izaya’s body between the warmth of his own legs and the heater for the kotatsu. Izaya smiles into the steam of his tea, and ducks his head over his cup, and for a minute there is just quiet in the room, even Izaya’s usual incessant need to disrupt Shizuo’s comfort apparently given over for the sake of momentary peace. Shizuo is left to watch Izaya from across the width of the kotatsu, to see the way the steam from his tea catches damp against the dark weight of his lashes and flushes his cheeks into pink warmth. Izaya’s mouth is soft for once, absent the drag of speech over his tongue or the ever-ready cut of a smile; Shizuo can see the distance between his barely-parted lips, can see the heat of the room coloring them darker than he’s ever noticed them before. There’s a weird weight in his chest, electricity tensing across his shoulders and along his spine in spite of Izaya’s unusual quiet; finally Shizuo looks down and away from the other boy to stare fixedly at his tea as he clears his throat into speech to break the strangely tense silence.

“Did you do anything crazy for Christmas?” Izaya looks up at him but Shizuo doesn’t meet the dark of the other’s eyes; he reaches for irritation instead, inventing the most dangerous pursuits he can imagine as suggestions for what Izaya has been getting up to without supervision. “Bet your life on a poker game, or take over a color gang, or something?”

“Please, senpai,” Izaya says, dragging the words high and injured as if Shizuo has offended him. “I’m a _first year_.” Shizuo glances up but Izaya’s not looking at him; he’s taking a sip from his tea, his expression relaxed into the very picture of innocence. Shizuo’s never seen anything so suspicious in all his life. Izaya swallows his tea, sets his cup back down, sighs a breath. “I’m going to wait to take over a color gang until high school at least.”

Shizuo huffs exasperation. “Don’t joke about that,” he snaps, and Izaya grins at him like he’s won something by drawing irritation from the other. “What _did_ you do for Christmas?”

“Nothing.” Shizuo narrows his eyes but Izaya just holds his gaze, raising his eyebrows and letting his smile pull wider as if to prove his point. “I’m not always getting into trouble, you know.” Shizuo wants to protest this as an absurd lie, but Izaya is tipping his head down and fluttering his lashes in a way that stalls all of Shizuo’s protest to silence. “Besides, isn’t Christmas for young lovers?” He dissolves into a laugh, the familiarity of the sound enough to ease Shizuo’s unusual tension, and draws his cup back in to cradle between his palms. “I just stayed home with my sisters.”

“And ate cup ramen for dinner?” Shizuo asks. “You’re going to starve if that’s all you ever eat.” Shizuo looks down at his teacup, frowning into the liquid like it can push away the too-clear image of Izaya and his sisters alone in the cold emptiness of their house, with nothing but a nearly-empty kitchen to keep them company through what is meant to be a celebration. “You should have brought them over here, at least then you’d get a real meal.”

“Aww,” Izaya purrs. “Were you lonely on Christmas Eve, senpai?” Shizuo’s head snaps up, his expression darkening like a storm is settling itself into his veins, but Izaya doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the glare Shizuo fixes him with. “You can’t expect normal humans to want to spend time with a monster like you.” Izaya’s head tips, his smile pulls sideways against his mouth. “What girl would want to go out with someone who could crush her as soon as she irritated him?”

“ _You’re_ here,” Shizuo says before he can think, before he can follow through the implications of that particular statement. He catches up a moment after he speaks, feels another shiver run down his spine, but Izaya appears unfazed, is responding with an easy “I’m not normal,” before Shizuo has a chance to flush into self-consciousness.

Shizuo huffs and ducks his chin so his hair falls in front of his face to half-cover his expression before he looks back up to watch Izaya’s face. “Seriously,” he says, as gently as he knows how. “Just come over next time.”

Izaya hums and takes another sip of his tea. “If I’m not busy.”

Inspiration strikes with another rush of electricity, thrumming all the way down Shizuo’s spine to tremble tp heat under his skin more radiant than the comfort of the kotatsu. “What about New Year’s?” Izaya’s eyes flicker wide for a moment, surprise clear across his face, and Shizuo keeps talking while the other stares shock at him. “Are you busy then?”

Izaya takes a moment before he responds. Shizuo can see his fingers tensing against the sides of his cup, can see the strain of some half-formed anxiety writing itself in the angle of Izaya’s wrists and the white at his knuckles even if his expression remains absolutely, unreadably blank.

“New Year’s is a family holiday,” he says, finally, attempting his usual lilting almost-laughter only for it to collapse to a tremor against his lips. “You’re supposed to spend it at _home_ , with your _parents_.”

Shizuo doesn’t point out the obvious. He’s sure Izaya knows better than he does how still the Orihara house is, how likely it is to remain empty and quiet and cold over the next few days of the holiday. He just keeps watching Izaya’s face, keeps his voice as level and steady as he can as he repeats, “What about New Year’s?”

Izaya stares at him in silence for a moment. Shizuo can see the breath he takes, can see the way it catches at the other’s lips as his fingers ease against the sides of his teacup, as his shoulders relax out of the momentary tension of uncertainty. And then Izaya’s mouth curves, his lips turning up at the corners into a smile that is softer than anything Shizuo’s ever seen on his face before, that lights his eyes up into oddly shy warmth as it strips away all the tension of insincerity from his expression for a moment. Shizuo is left breathless, speechless, all the blood in his veins going to heat that has nothing to do with the familiar burn of anger; for a moment all he can see is the soft of Izaya’s lashes against the vivid color of his eyes, the damp of the tea still clinging to the other’s mouth as he smiles that strange, shaky smile, the saturated dark of his hair spilling like ink against the pale of his skin. “I couldn’t leave you to suffer alone, senpai,” Izaya is saying, but Shizuo barely hears him for the thunder of his heart pounding in his chest, for the rush of warmth in his body that Izaya must be able to feel glowing like the sun against his slow-warming feet.

“Good,” Shizuo manages, habit steering him through the motions of conversation while his thoughts reel themselves into a new order, into a new logic in his mind. “I’ll tell my mom.”

He barely hears the words on his lips for the epiphany of infatuation still echoing through him.


	14. Aware

It’s distracting to have Izaya around.

Nothing has changed, really. Shizuo tells himself that, repeats it over and over again for the hours he spends waiting for Izaya’s arrival with steadily increasing tension along his spine and odd adrenaline collecting in his stomach. There’s nothing different between them, nothing but the same familiar shape of friendship they’ve formed over the last few months of the school year; Shizuo’s own personal realization should have no effect on their interaction at all. The fact that he thinks it’s maybe not a new feeling, that he feels more like he’s seen something that was there all along instead of stumbling into a completely novel emotion, is just further proof that nothing is different; if they have been friends in spite of Shizuo more-than-platonic feelings before now, there’s no reason they can’t continue on as they have been with the simple addition of Shizuo’s improved understanding of his own perspective. Nothing has changed; but _everything_ has changed, Shizuo can feel the awareness creeping under his skin like an itch he can’t scratch, and when there’s a knock on the door five minutes before time the way his stomach plummets over a cliff of nerves just proves the fact. Izaya has brought his sisters with him, as suggested, and that’s almost all Shizuo can tell of the other, because he can hardly stand to look at Izaya without feeling like his whole self is glowing with self-conscious obviousness of his own feelings. His heartbeat won’t slow, his cheeks won’t cool, and when Izaya laughs and bumps an elbow against Shizuo’s side it takes everything Shizuo has not to flinch bodily away from the electrical shock that runs through him at the contact.

It’s ridiculous. They’ve spoken before, they’ve _touched_ before, for far longer and with far more casual intimacy; Shizuo’s never had any problems dealing with Izaya before now, either with the shrill skid of his voice or the sharp edges of his movements when they bump together. But now he feels like he’s been set alight, like his every movement is drawn deliberate and awkward with self-consciousness, until even the simple process of fitting everyone around the kotatsu becomes an exercise in overthinking. Kasuka sits down first, taking the far side of the table with the calm confidence he exudes as easily as breathing; and normally Shizuo would take another side for himself, but there are five of them with the addition of the Oriharas, and the television in the corner makes one side of the kotatsu off-limits completely, and suddenly sitting on the empty side feels like a painfully obvious ploy to share with Izaya. Shizuo can’t think straight, can’t pull himself through the logic of rational thought; and then Kasuka says, “Aren’t you going to sit down?” and Shizuo does, taking the empty side opposite the television in the first stuttering rush of panic. Izaya’s sisters are still taking off their shoes in the entryway, not even in sight of making a claim to the kotatsu yet; but Izaya sits down next to Shizuo without even hesitating, tipping in hard to push his shoulder against the other boy’s as he says, “Move over, senpai,” with casual unconcern on the words. Shizuo moves, his heart pounding too hard to allow him even the option to do anything else, and then Izaya’s pressing in close against him, kicking a foot out to rest his ankle over Shizuo’s with a complete lack of the self-consciousness that is locking Shizuo to breathless strain where he sits. Then the twins come in, and Izaya turns to say something to them, and Shizuo takes the moment of distraction to reach for the television remote and turn on the screen just for the sake of something else to look at. By the time Mairu and Kururi are settled with the mandarins Kasuka peeled for them and Izaya is leaning over the table to prop his chin against his hand Shizuo has remembered the basic principle of breathing, even if he hasn’t yet reacquired an ordinary rhythm for his inhales.

It’s the longest night Shizuo’s ever experienced. Even when he’s attained some ability to communicate more or less normally after hours have numbed his first jittery reaction to Izaya’s presence, his pulse still refuses to ease, his breathing never quite loses the first panicked edge it had. Izaya is too close, too prone to shifting to lean against Shizuo’s shoulder or kick at his ankle whenever Shizuo starts to get comfortable in a given position, until by the time they are waiting through the last hour of the old year Shizuo is more exhausted by the sustained tension in him than by the lateness of the hour. He wants Izaya gone, wants Izaya closer; there’s some smell catching in the air, some odd richness that Shizuo can’t quite place before it flickers away and is gone. He thinks it might be Izaya’s hair, might be some spiciness from his shampoo or the aroma of soap clinging to the warmth of his skin; but he can’t catch it free from the air, can’t figure out where or what it is with the distraction of his racing heart pulling his attention away. Finally he gives up on trying to identify it, gives up on even the awkward attempt at conversation he’s been trying, and fixes his gaze entirely on the flickering light of the television so he can indulge his attention instead in how warm Izaya’s leg is pressed against his, in how the other boy shifts occasionally to lean against Shizuo’s shoulder as he adjusts into a more comfortable position. Mairu and Kururi are long since asleep, drowsing turned in towards each other as if they’re in bed instead of under the kotatsu at Shizuo’s home, and if Kasuka’s not asleep it’s not for lack of trying; Shizuo hasn’t seen him more than blink in almost an hour, since the last show to call in the new year started playing on the screen. But Izaya is awake, still as talkative now as he was when he arrived; Shizuo can barely pay attention to what he’s being teased about now, keeps losing the meaning of Izaya’s words for the almost-whisper soft of the other’s voice around the syllables.

“I was kidding about the karaoke club,” he’s saying now, murmuring the words with so much laughter under them that Shizuo doesn’t dare look at him to see the shadows under the expression Izaya is offering. “You actually would have really liked it, wouldn’t you?” There’s a force against Shizuo’s side, the weight of Izaya leaning in hard to press his elbow low under the other’s ribs, and Shizuo pushes at his arm without thinking, shoving the other boy away before Izaya notices the way Shizuo goes tense with self-consciousness, before he hears the way Shizuo’s breath catches to strain in his throat. Izaya topples to the floor, falling so fast Shizuo flinches at the inadvertent force he used; but Izaya’s laughing, his voice spilling bright as he braces a hand at the floor to push himself up again. “You’re seriously uncool, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo can feel himself blushing, self-consciousness spilling hot across his cheeks in answer to the curl of the smile at Izaya’s mouth and the dark of his eyes in the dim illumination from the television. “Shut up,” he says, a weak response even among the few protests he could make; Izaya’s smile is pulling Shizuo’s attention to his mouth, the brace of his arm is drawing Shizuo’s gaze to the sharp angle of his wrist, and Shizuo can’t make himself look away. “I’m trying to watch the show.”

Izaya’s lashes flutter, his chin dips down until he’s looking up at Shizuo through the dark curtain of his hair. “The show’s boring,” he says, drawling over the words with as much appreciation as if they’re syrup on his tongue. “It’s almost over anyway.”

“Let me _finish_ it, then,” Shizuo insists. Izaya laughs, his expression collapsing into a giggle of sound brighter by far than the glow of the television, and Shizuo looks away fast, before he can lose his focus to the shift of Izaya’s lashes again. He can still feel his cheeks heat with adrenaline, can feel his whole body tense on awareness of Izaya’s gaze on him; but he doesn’t look back, and Izaya doesn’t speak again. After a moment he shifts instead, leaning forward over the top of the kotatsu so he can rest his head on his arm like he’s going to sleep, and Shizuo can feel some of the strain in him ease with the absence of Izaya’s attention. The television is still on, the show still working through the last few verses of the performer’s song, but Shizuo’s barely hearing them for the soft sound of Izaya breathing next to him. They’re still pressed close together, Izaya’s hip flush with Shizuo’s and the whole length of his leg warm against the other’s; Shizuo can feel Izaya shift as he settles himself against the support of the table, as he turns his head down to press his forehead against his arm. The room is very still, filled with the low murmur of the television as backdrop for the sound of the twins’ sleep-deep breathing and the occasional shift of a foot under the kotatsu; when Shizuo glances sideways even Kasuka has his eyes shut, looks to be dozing towards sleep to carry him over into the new year. The girls are asleep, Kasuka is dozing, Izaya’s tipped forward over the table, and in the peace of the fading year Shizuo takes a breath and lets himself look at Izaya next to him for a long span of seconds.

There’s not that much to see. Izaya’s face is turned down against the support of his arm, his shoulders are hunched in over the edge of the table; mostly Shizuo can see the dark of his shirt across his shoulders, maybe the angle of his wrist over the surface of the kotatsu if he looks. But Izaya’s hair is falling forward to cover his face, the dark of it still clinging to that faint whisper of scent Shizuo can catch if he reaches for it, and when Izaya shifts a lock slides forward and off the back of his neck. Shizuo can see the press of bone against skin in the gap between Izaya’s hair and the top of his shirt, can see the curve of vertebrae pressing against the back of his neck from the way his head is bowed, and for a long moment he just stares at the shadows clinging to Izaya’s skin, thinks about how soft the other’s hair would feel if he reached out and slid his fingers in against it. Then there’s a flicker of light, the illumination from the television shifting as the screen changes to a different display, and Shizuo blinks and looks away from Izaya to the display of numbers flashing to clarity on the screen.

There’s a minute left in the year, the seconds ticking away even as he looks; beside him Kasuka has surrendered to the weight of sleep against the table, his expression gone slack with unconsciousness as he balances against the support of his hand. The twins are sound asleep on the floor, and Shizuo can hear his parents talking in low voices in the other room; and that just leaves Izaya, with his head turned down against the table and so still Shizuo wonders if he hasn’t fallen asleep the same as Kasuka. Shizuo hesitates for a moment, uncertain about what to do; and then he decides himself, and says, “Izaya-kun,” as gently as he can manage, softly enough to not disturb the twins or Kasuka’s precarious rest. Izaya’s shoulders are hunched over the table; Shizuo reaches out, hesitating for a moment of shivery self-consciousness before letting his fingertips alight against the sharp edge of shoulderblade under Izaya’s shirt. “Hey, Izaya, wake up.”

“I’m not asleep,” Izaya says, his voice muffled against the table as he rubs his sleeve over his face and lifts his head to blink at Shizuo. “What do you want?”

Izaya’s eyes are shadowed, his hair tangling across his forehead and his mouth soft on the start of a frown; Shizuo can only stand to look at him for a moment before the adrenaline tense along his spine pulls his attention away to watch the far safer flicker of the television’s countdown. “Look,” he says, all but whispering like he’ll chase away the new year if he speaks too loudly. “It’s almost time.”

There’s a breathless pause, the countdown on the screen measuring out seconds with a consistency that Shizuo can’t understand with his heart beating as hard as it is. His hand is still weighting against Izaya’s shoulder; when Shizuo glances back Izaya is staring at the television, his eyes wide and mouth still caught on that frown as oddly soft as if he’s frightened of the approach of the arbitrary shift from one year to the next. The countdown is still happening, the digits flickering themselves to zeros in Shizuo’s periphery; but he doesn’t look away to the screen, keeps watching Izaya’s expression instead as if the anticipation rushing through his veins will be eased by the other boy’s face. Izaya’s shoulders tense, he blinks hard like he’s bracing for something; and then the television crackles into sound, excitement made staticky through turned-low speakers, and Shizuo presses his fingers into deliberate weight against Izaya’s shoulder as the other boy takes a breath and sighs through some of his tension.

“Happy New Year,” Shizuo says, still watching Izaya’s face instead of the screen or the shift of Kasuka coming back to awareness on the other side of the kotatsu. Izaya looks back at him, his eyes wide and mouth soft; for a moment Shizuo can see the dark of the other’s lashes heavy in the illumination of the room, can see an odd uncertainty behind Izaya’s eyes like he’s never seen before. It’s still there when Izaya swallows hard before opening his mouth to say “Happy New Year,” as if he’s echoing the words back from Shizuo’s lips more than giving them voice himself.

Shizuo’s heart is still beating fast in his chest, his fingers are still trembling with barely-restrained tension at Izaya’s shoulder. But for just a moment, the adrenaline in him shivers into the warmth of happiness instead of the strain of near-panic.

It feels like a good omen for the new year.


	15. Possibility

Kasuka makes good company for Shizuo through the morning hours of saving a spot under the cherry trees. It’s been their responsibility for years to make the trek out in the early hours of the morning to spread a blanket under the trees and wait out the time until their parents arrive with the food to carry them through the rest of the day, and Kasuka is always easy to comfortably exist with for the span of a few hours. First thing in the morning is one of Shizuo’s favorite times, when the city is still quiet in the early effort of waking and the air is crisp enough to earn the beginnings of a shiver along his spine if he holds still too long; the milk Kasuka buys for him from the convenience store doesn’t help with the chill, but the sweet of it tastes good enough that Shizuo doesn’t mind the mild discomfort that comes with the temperature. Besides, the sun is rising higher in the sky, warming even the springtime chill off the air into something more comfortable for the rest of the day, and in the calm quiet that comes with Kasuka’s presence Shizuo can start to drift into a nap against the blanket as the best way to wait out the time still remaining until their parents meet them. He can hear Kasuka shift next to him, settling into a more comfortable position against the blanket; and then, clear and without any kind of a lead-in at all, “You should have invited Orihara-san to come with us.”

Shizuo’s attention snaps back into clarity in the gap between one breath and the next. He had been on the verge of sleep, or at least some kind of deeply immersive daydream; but he jerks into full alertness all at once, even half-sitting up from his reclined position over the blanket before he can get a handle on the sudden surge of adrenaline that hits him. His heart is pounding unreasonably fast, his skin prickling as if just the mention of Izaya’s name is enough to spark electricity out through his veins, and when he speaks to say “What?” his voice wobbles over itself in the back of his throat to undo his attempt at a casual tone before he’s even formed it. “Why?”

Kasuka turns his head to consider Shizuo with absolute calm. There’s no trace of surprise in his features, not even the sparkle of amusement behind his eyes; Shizuo isn’t even completely sure that his telltale jerky response registered as anything out of the ordinary to Kasuka.

“His parents don’t go cherry blossom viewing, do they?” The flat of Kasuka’s voice makes the question more a statement than an inquiry. “His sisters would probably have fun coming out here. And mom is always saying they should come over more often so she can feed them.” Kasuka stretches his legs out in front of him, turns his head to consider the angle of his feet as if they are of far more interest than Shizuo’s fixed attention. “You’re always talking about Orihara-san. I thought you would have invited him already.”

Shizuo’s cheeks are flushing hot, self-consciousness is prickling electric all across his skin. “No,” he manages, but his voice manages to strain even on that one word, turning the simple negation into a growl of denial in his throat. “I don’t do everything with Izaya-kun.”

Kasuka shrugs, as nonchalant about Shizuo’s embarrassed frustration as he seems to be about the subject in general. “It’s fine,” he says, shifting to cross his legs so he can sit up straighter and look out over the pale pink of the trees lining the gentle dips of the hills in front of them. “I was just wondering.”

“Well I didn’t,” Shizuo says, ducking his head so his hair falls to shadow over his face and grant him a moment to let his cheeks cool from what feels like a crimson glow of embarrassment. He reaches out past the edge of the blanket, catches his fingers at the grass under them and tugs sharp so the blades break off against the grip of his fingers. When he clears his throat it’s without looking up from the grass, while keeping his gaze studiously focused on the unthinking tug of his hand. “Do you think I should have?”

“Maybe,” Kasuka says, sounding so utterly detached from the conversation that Shizuo wouldn’t even think he was listening except that he’s responding, which is as invested as Kasuka ever becomes in dialogue. “You seem happier when he’s around.”

“I’m not,” Shizuo denies, but he can feel his shoulders hunching up around his ears as if he can hide behind them, as if he can curve his spine and make a wall between Kasuka’s too-apt observations and the near-painful warmth that fills his chest every time he hears Izaya’s name, now. “He’s a brat. If he came I’d spend all my time worrying about him.”

“Don’t you worry about him all the time anyway?” Kasuka asks, and then, before Shizuo can find the right way to deny this particular claim, “What are you going to do when you graduate next year?” with the same off-hand delivery that he offered for weight of his first question.

Shizuo can feel the words hit as if they’re blows. He’s been trying to avoid this particular subject, has managed to ignore the thought almost entirely but for the brief, uncomfortable reminders that come with the excitement of the graduating third-years at school and the regular announcements for the upcoming ceremony that goes hand-in-hand with the pink of the blossoms clinging to the trees overhead.

“Nothing,” he says, ducking his head to stare fixedly at the grass under his hands as if that will somehow ease the weight of stress that always hits him when he thinks even briefly about high school, about the pressure of the exams and the inevitable awkwardness of a new school and Izaya alone, Izaya without anyone to catch him off the edge of windowsills or hold him back from climbing too-precarious heights. Even in distant hypotheticals it aches, pressing unhappiness tight against Shizuo’s ribcage until it’s hard to breathe, until his voice is rough in his throat when he speaks. “Go to high school.”

“Yeah,” Kasuka agrees, sounding like he’s thinking about something else entirely. When Shizuo glances sideways at him he’s looking up at the sky overhead, his head tipped back so he can blink half-focused attention up at the blue. He looks calm, comfortable, peaceful in a way Shizuo has never even been able to imagine feeling, and for the briefest of moments Shizuo can feel the sting of envy in the back of his thoughts, can feel longing framed out by his heartbeat for that freedom in Kasuka’s expression, for some measure of that unconcern that so characterizes his brother’s life. It would be so much easier, Shizuo is sure, so much simpler without his unnatural strength, and without the worry that comes with being friends with Orihara Izaya, and definitely without the electrical spark of adrenaline that hits him whenever he so much as considers his best friend’s face. It would be simpler, would be more comfortable, would be _better_ ; and then Kasuka continues, “Are you and Orihara-san going to go to the same high school?” and Shizuo’s growing melancholy flickers out to the sunbright flash of possibility that opens itself to him.

“What?” he says, and then “Oh,” as the idea presents itself in full in his head without any additional needed clarification. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You could,” Kasuka says, and then he falls utterly silent again, lapsing into quiet consideration of the flowers overhead as if he’s suddenly taken the entire goal of the outing to heart. Shizuo is left staring at Kasuka’s back, his gaze fixed but unseeing, because he’s thinking about high school, now, is imagining the bright of Izaya’s smile in front of some as-yet-unknown school gate and the fit of a high school uniform across the other’s skinny shoulders and the glow of two more years together stretching out in front of them. Shizuo can only think of it for a moment -- the idea is too far off, has too many uncertainties under it for him to even contemplate yet -- but when he blinks his vision back into focus the world seems a little bit softer, the air seems a little bit clearer. It’s not until he sighs an exhale that he realizes he’s smiling, that the glow of his imagination has knocked his expression to warmth as well, and then he has to focus on composing his features back to more ordinary boredom before their parents arrive to comment on it.

He wonders if Kasuka knows how grateful he is for the possibility.


	16. Anticipate

Izaya catches up with Shizuo just as they’re leaving the gym after the graduation ceremony. They ended up on opposite sides of the space, the distinction in their years turned into a gap of physical distance for the duration of the ceremony, and Shizuo would have minded except that he thinks he wouldn’t have been able to pay even minimal attention to the graduating third-years if he had had Izaya close enough to touch the entire time. Even as it was he found his attention wandering to the dark head two sections over and a row ahead of him more than it stayed focused on the stage or the speeches and kept having to drag his focus back to the event by force. Izaya looked back at him once in the middle of the ceremony, glancing back as if he could feel Shizuo’s eyes on him and was answering the call of his name; Shizuo had looked away in a rush, but it wasn’t fast enough to save him from seeing the flash of Izaya’s grin as he felt his cheeks start to warm into embarrassment. He kept his gaze firmly on the stage after that, self-consciousness a strong enough force to do what sheer force of will couldn’t, and by the time the ceremony is finishing Shizuo thinks he might even be ready to handle whatever teasing Izaya is going to throw at him. His shoulders are tense on expectation, his skin prickling with strain; but “Thank god that’s over,” is all Izaya says, sighing the words as he settles into pace with Shizuo. “Graduations are always so _tedious_.”

“Don’t be rude,” Shizuo tells him, and leans in to bump his elbow hard against Izaya’s arm. His heart skids in his chest at the contact but Izaya doesn’t even glance at him. “It’s a big deal for the third-years.”

Izaya shrugs. “I don’t care about any of them. Everyone is so stiff and formal about it. It’s not like it really matters anyway.”

Shizuo frowns at Izaya’s profile, feeling his heart constrict around the same anxiety that has been building in him for the last few weeks. “It matters to _them_ ,” he says. “Don’t you have any sympathy in you at all?”

“Hm.” Izaya lifts his head to squint thoughtfully at the sky, like he’s checking inside himself for any trace of emotion. “I don’t think so.”

Shizuo huffs. “Of course you don’t.” His shoulders tip forward, his back curving as if to protect himself as the weight of disappointment settles over him again. When he speaks the words are bitter on his tongue, truth made sour by the unhappiness it brings. “You won’t care until you’re the one walking across the stage, will you?”

“Maybe not even then,” Izaya says, his voice lilting daydream-soft in his throat, and Shizuo didn’t intend to look at him but he can’t resist the temptation. When he tips his head to glance sideways Izaya is still looking up, his attention lingering against the cherry blossoms overhead like he’s forgotten to keep the usual sharp edges of his expression in place. His mouth has gone soft with lack of focus; Shizuo can see the shift of the other’s lips as Izaya starts a half-formed smile at some idea. “Maybe I just won’t show up.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo says, his voice coming out rougher than he intends on the heat in his throat. “You can’t miss your own graduation.”

Izaya’s laugh is sharp and so sudden it makes Shizuo jump. “Says who?” he wants to know, and then he’s moving, skipping ahead and away before Shizuo can think to grab at his sleeve and hold him still. It’s only by a few steps; then he turns on his heel, swinging back around as if he’s making a grand reveal of the smile clinging to his lips, as if he’s framed by some camera lens capturing him for an audience beyond Shizuo’s constant attention. For just a moment he looks like he’s part of a picture, like the school gate over his shoulder is a frame for the dark of his jacket and the pale of the flowers overhead; Shizuo can feel his heart skid out on a beat, can feel his breathing catch hard in his throat at the shadows of Izaya’s stare and the tension of the smile at his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya purrs, his lashes dipping heavy over his eyes as his voice draws his words into suggestion Shizuo can feel run straight through him like lightning. His smile is lopsided, the curve of it as much a temptation as the sound of his voice. “I’ll definitely be at _your_ graduation.”

Shizuo can feel himself go crimson, can feel the burn of embarrassment flare all under his skin like a flame. “Shut up,” he says, stepping forward to reach out for Izaya’s arm and turn the other boy around so Shizuo can stop staring at his mouth. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Isn’t it?” Izaya asks, his voice veering so close to a laugh that Shizuo’s fingers tense without thought, self-consciousness writing itself to strain in his hold. “You don’t need to fret, senpai, your cute kouhai will be in the audience to cry appropriately at being abandoned.”

There’s an odd note in his voice on the last word, something Shizuo can’t make sense of at all; he glances back to Izaya’s face, just for a moment, long enough to see the weight of laughter still at the other’s mouth juxtaposed against the focus behind the dark of his eyes. “You wouldn’t,” Shizuo says as he looks away, still trying to pin down the emotion in the other’s expression. “You won’t be _abandoned_ , anyway.”

“I’m hurt,” Izaya says, slowing his steps until Shizuo’s hold on his arm is pulling him forward more than his own action. “You’re going to leave me all alone and you won’t even take responsibility for the trauma you’ll cause me?”

That weight is still under his voice, that odd shadow of sound like he’s saying something completely different, like there’s some burden his words are carrying other than the obvious. Shizuo looks back to Izaya’s face again, his forehead creasing on confusion; Izaya’s stumbling in his wake, his arm caught hard in Shizuo’s grip and his smile flickering like he’s having trouble holding to it. “It won’t be _trauma_ ,” Shizuo says, but he’s paying more attention to his hold than his words, undoing the tension in his fingers until he feels like he’s barely touching Izaya at all, like he’s catching the fragility of the other’s arm in a cage of his fingers instead of actually pressing any weight against the other’s skin. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Izaya says, his voice breaking over assumed emotion and his eyes dark with sincerity. “If it’s easier for my senpai to forget about his pining kouhai, I understand. I only want what’s best for you after all.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, feeling his cheeks burn flame-hot on embarrassment as he lets Izaya’s arm go entirely so he can go through the motions of trying to hit him. “Shut _up_.” Izaya dodges as if going through the steps of a dance, ducking under Shizuo’s arm to press in closer against him, and for just a minute he’s flush against Shizuo’s side, looking up at him with that odd softness in his eyes and his smile still warm against his mouth.

“Whatever you say,” he purrs, and Shizuo has to laugh; adrenaline is too fizzing-hot all through him for any other reaction. He grabs at Izaya’s shoulder with the same gentleness he managed to attain for his hold against the other’s arm, his fingers settling around Izaya’s shoulders for just a moment before Shizuo braces himself to pull the other away.

“Get off me,” he says, but the words go so soft on affection in his throat he’s sure Izaya will notice, sure he’ll get himself some kind of a comment. But Izaya doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t crackle a laugh; he just steps back in over the minimal distance to press himself close against Shizuo’s arm as if he’s feeling the magnetic draw between them as strongly as Shizuo is.

“It’s all in the future anyway,” Izaya says. His sleeve is catching against Shizuo’s as they move; if Shizuo turned his head in he could press his nose against Izaya’s hair, could breathe in the not-quite-sweet that clings to all the edges of the other boy. “Who knows, maybe you’ll fail your classes and be held back with me another year.”

“I hope not,” Shizuo says, more for the appearance of protest than the fact of it. Izaya laughs bright, tipping his head to gaze shadows at Shizuo, and Shizuo reaches out in a surge of bravery to ruffle his fingers into the soft of Izaya’s hair under the pretense of pushing him away. Izaya stumbles sideways, still laughing as he catches his balance and comes back in, and Shizuo doesn’t try to hold back the smile at his lips as they fall back into step together.

With Izaya this close, Shizuo can almost taste electricity in the air.


	17. Trust

“I’ve been thinking,” Izaya says from Shizuo’s elbow. “And I’ve decided. You need to bleach your hair, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo cuts his gaze sideways, feeling his forehead creasing into the confusion that is always so common when Izaya’s around. “ _What_?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s not that complicated,” Izaya declares. He’s wandering away, his steps taking him out of range of Shizuo’s reach as he gravitates towards one of the low walls running through the middle of the park. Shizuo follows, trailing in Izaya’s wake as the other boy skips up onto the edge of the wall without any apparent effort in the motion, as if he’s gone momentarily weightless to achieve the action. “Surely you don’t think all those delinquents are natural blonds, do you?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, stepping in closer to the wall as Izaya pivots on one foot with alarming unconcern for his precarious balance. “ _You_ bleach your hair, if you like the idea so much.”

“I’m serious,” Izaya tells him, his mouth pulling on a smile that says he’s not. “You can’t just go out into the world without _some_ way to warn people.”

“I’m not going to _warn_ anyone.” Shizuo frowns at the shift of Izaya’s feet against the wall, at the pavement underneath that promises bruises and blood in the event of a slip. “Get down before you fall.”

Izaya takes a half-step over the edge of the wall by way of response. When Shizuo looks up to glare at him Izaya smirks down, his eyes dark in the shadow of his hair.

“You _have_ to,” he declares, reaching out to push his fingers into Shizuo’s hair with a casual force that Shizuo can feel shudder heat all down his spine. “It’s a public service, Shizuo-senpai, you have to look at least as dangerous as you are. Otherwise strangers will think you’re just an ordinary middle schooler.”

Shizuo reaches up to push Izaya’s hand away before the other notices how flushed his cheeks are. “I’m not bleaching my hair. School rules don’t allow it.”

Izaya’s laugh is fever-bright, sparkling like glass in the clear air of the park. “Like you care about school rules,” he purrs, his voice dipping to shadow to match the dark of his lashes. “No one could make you obey them if you didn’t want to.”

“I could get expelled,” Shizuo says. Izaya’s foot teeters against the edge of the wall, his balance wobbling for a moment; Shizuo frowns at the motion, his shoulders tensing in preemptive panic. “Seriously, get _down_.”

Izaya ignores him. “It wasn’t so bad when you were bruised all the time. You hardly get into fights at all now, though.” He sounds nearly disappointed, as if Shizuo is somehow letting him down by failing to engage in active exhibitions of violence on a near-daily basis. “When was the last time you broke a bone?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo says rather than attempting to protest the basic assumption of the question. “Last year?”

“Exactly.” Izaya shifts his feet and smiles down at Shizuo. “You look _normal_ , senpai, everyone will think you’re an ordinary human like this.” He spreads his arms out at his sides, like he’s unfurling wings into the air that only he can see; and then he lifts one foot off the wall, wobbling dangerously like he’s thinking about toppling off the support entirely. Shizuo makes a sound, something so raw on adrenaline he can’t even attempt to catch it back, and when he reaches out to seize at Izaya’s ankle it’s with none of the deliberate care he has been learning to use whenever he closes his fingers around the other’s skin.

“Get _down_ ,” Shizuo grates, panic lacing his voice into a growl he could never hit if he were aiming for it deliberately as he looks up to see Izaya gazing down at him with a smile catching sharp at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to to catch you if you fall.”

“You startled me,” Izaya says, his eyes shadowed to darkness and his smile unflinching even though Shizuo can feel the other’s balance wobbling underneath the too-tight hold he has on Izaya’s ankle. “If I did fall it would have been your fault.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says, still feeling the tremor of panic running all through him as if he’s seeing Izaya falling in front of him, as if there’s some crisis still to be averted. When he reaches up it’s to grab at Izaya’s hip, to catch his fingers tight against the top edge of the other boy’s jeans to steady him in place. Izaya stumbles at the edge of the wall, his balance tipping forward against the support of Shizuo’s chest, but Shizuo doesn’t move away and doesn’t let him go. “Come _down_.”

Izaya tips his head down to gaze shadows at Shizuo, to flutter his eyelashes and drag his lips around the shape of a purr. “Make me.”

Shizuo can feel laughter threatening in his chest, his panicked adrenaline unfolding into a shimmer of amusement at this particular taunt. “Fine,” he says, and steps backwards from the wall, letting Izaya’s ankle go to brace his hand against the other’s waist instead. Izaya yelps an unformed sound of surprise and reaches out to grab hard at Shizuo’s wrists, but Shizuo keeps backing up to pull Izaya’s feet completely off the wall and take the other’s weight against his chest and shoulder. Izaya wobbles precariously, tipping backwards as he tries to lean away with nowhere to go, and when he reaches out to save himself his fingers dig in hard against Shizuo’s shoulder, his touch catching and dragging through the other’s hair as Shizuo settles his hold to steadiness with an arm looping around Izaya’s waist. Izaya’s fingers slip down to tense hard against the back of Shizuo’s neck, and Shizuo takes a breath against the front of Izaya’s shirt, filling his lungs with shuddering heat that he can feel spill down his spine like an electrical charge running off the other’s skin. He can taste vanilla, can smell licorice, and Izaya is laughing over him, demanding “Put me down,” with his fingers curling into Shizuo’s shirt in a way that utterly undoes any motivation Shizuo might have had to let him go. He swings his foot, scoring a glancing blow against Shizuo’s ribs, but Shizuo just huffs an exhale and keeps his hold tight around Izaya’s waist. “Senpai, put me _down_.”

“No,” Shizuo tells him, smiling helplessly even before he looks up to see the way Izaya’s mouth is curving around the shape of his laugh and the way his eyes are soft on amusement. Izaya reaches for his face, his fingers angling into the outline of a threat, and Shizuo tips sideways so Izaya’s touch just slides into his hair again. “You were going to fall.”

“I wasn’t.” Izaya pushes at Shizuo’s hair, kicks against him again, but it’s not enough to even jar Shizuo’s hold, and besides he’s still laughing, still forming the shape of his words around the spreading smile at his mouth, now. “You _made_ me fall.”

“Shut up or I’ll carry you back home,” Shizuo says, but even that is soft at his lips, gentle on affection he can’t even attempt to restrain with Izaya warm in his arms and the other’s fingers pressing against his scalp.

“Monster,” Izaya tells him, the word spilling to shadow in his throat until it almost sounds more like an endearment than an insult. “You--”

“ _Orihara_.”

It takes Shizuo a moment to realize the voice is referring to them, another to pull his attention enough away from Izaya to actually look to see the face of the speaker. It’s not hard to tell who it is, even if the face is wholly unfamiliar to Shizuo’s eyes; the man is standing in the very center of the path running through the park, facing them with a stance wide enough for Shizuo to tense in instinctive expectation of the fight that always comes with an approach like that. Izaya is twisting to look back, his weight shifting to rely on Shizuo’s hold instead of pushing against it, but Shizuo doesn’t look up to see the other’s expression; he’s focused on the darkness behind the flashing white of the stranger’s smile, the bared-teeth grimace barely masquerading as friendliness under the barrier of the sunglasses he’s wearing.

“Izumii-san,” Izaya says from over Shizuo’s head, and Shizuo realizes he’s still holding the other off the ground and lets him go, slowly so Izaya has time to slide to his feet instead of falling. Izaya turns as soon as his feet touch the pavement, twisting away without looking at Shizuo as if the other has become a part of the scenery now that his attention is centered on someone else. “How charming to finally make your acquaintance. I’d been hoping we’d get the chance someday soon.”

The stranger’s mouth stretches wider, his grin going so overtly threatening Shizuo’s shoulders tense in instinctive response before he has thought through his reaction at all. “You’re just a kid after all, aren’t you?” he says, and steps forward to cut the distance between them by half. “Orihara Izaya. You’ve got all the gangs in the city talking about you.”

“That’s wonderful,” Izaya purrs. He doesn’t look concerned at all; his shoulders are relaxed, his stance off-balance as if he doesn’t see the threat approaching, as if he’s somehow oblivious to the barely restrained violence lurking underneath the hunch of the man’s shoulders and the cut of his smile. “I _love_ being the center of attention.”

The man’s grin twists sharper. “Cute,” he says, and Shizuo very nearly drags Izaya back bodily from the threat dripping off the sound of the other’s voice. But Izaya’s not moving, and not looking at him, and the stranger is coming closer, stepping in so near Shizuo can see the individual locks of his hair where they’re combed back from his forehead. Shizuo’s shoulders are tense, his heart is pounding as adrenaline simmers just under the surface of his skin; but the man isn’t looking at him at all, he’s staring at Izaya as if he hasn’t seen Shizuo, as if he’s entirely ignoring the presence of what must look like just another middle schooler to his eyes. “That why you been fucking around with my boys?”

“Oh no,” Izaya says, and Shizuo’s spine prickles at the mania under the other’s voice, at the bright, reckless edge in Izaya’s throat like he almost never hears, anymore. “I’m been fucking around with _yakuza_. Your little gang is just a side effect.”

“Little,” the man repeats, coughing the sound into a laugh too cold to bear anything but danger on the sound. “Damn, kid, you’ve got some backbone. You remind me of my kid brother.”

“Aww,” Izaya drawls. “How sweet.”

“Yeah.” The stranger drags his gaze over Izaya, as measuring as if his hands are pressing against the other’s body, and Shizuo can feel his jaw set, can feel fury surge into startling heat under his skin even before the other shrugs overt dismissal. “I fucking _hate_ my brother.”

“I feel bad for him,” Izaya says. “Having to deal with an idiot like you on a daily basis must be _terrible_.”

“It’d be real nice to break your face,” the man says, his teeth bone white in the sunlight. “I could pretend it’s his face I’m smashing into the pavement.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Izaya says, still sounding unconcerned, sounding more entertained than anything else, as if he’s leaning into the danger, anticipating the burst of violence instead of flinching from it. “If you don’t think your brotherly love will get in the way.”

Shizuo can see intention twist all along the stranger’s arm, can see his fingers curl into the heavy weight of a fist at his side. “Fuck you,” the man says, and he lifts his hand for a swing, and--

“ _Hey_ ,” a voice says, a growl rumbling into a vibration Shizuo doesn’t realize is his until he feels it in his chest, and his feet move him forward, his hand comes up without thought to catch at the stranger’s arm with unthinking speed. His heart is pounding, his whole body is going hot with anticipation, and he can feel his fingers flexing against the stranger’s arm, can feel the urge to swing and settle his knuckles into the other’s face, to undo the knot of stress at his spine with a sudden burst of the violence demanding expression from him. His shoulders are steady, his whole being thrumming like he’s become an electrical charge waiting to ground out at any sign of resistance; and the stranger retreats, wrenching his arm free of Shizuo’s hold with startling strength and taking a pair of steps backwards as his smile vanishes.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” he snaps. “Orihara and I were talking.”

“I’m Heiwajima Shizuo,” Shizuo’s voice says for him, and he can taste the threat of that on his tongue, can feel the weight of his own name turned into the fuse of a bomb somewhere inside his chest. “Who are _you_?”

“ _Heiwajima_.” The stranger is staring at Shizuo, all the threat in his expression stripped away to blank consideration. “You’re the one who--” He cuts himself off, his head turning for a moment towards Izaya again, and Shizuo nearly punches him before he parses the sideways glance as involuntary instead of a threat. “It was you. You’re the ones who attacked my boys back last year.”

Shizuo’s teeth press hard against each other, his shoulders tense around his ears. “ _Attacked_?”

“You again,” the man says, past Shizuo’s shoulder, still speaking to Izaya half-hidden behind the wall Shizuo is making of his body. “You sicced your goddamn guard dog on them.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Shizuo growls, irritation flaring to open anger at this misrepresentation even if he’s not sure which of the dozens of past fights the stranger is referring to. “I didn’t _attack_ them, they--”

“That’s right.”

The answer comes from over Shizuo’s shoulder, loud and carrying enough to break right through his escalating ire and derail it to confusion. He look back, his focus scattering away from the threat still in front of him, but Izaya’s not looking at him; he’s smirking at the stranger, rocking his weight back over his heels as if they’re having a pleasant chat instead of on the verge of a fistfight in the middle of the park.

“Your boys tried to fuck with me and found it was harder than they thought it would be,” Izaya continues, drawling the words into the beginning of a laugh like he’s trying to draw the stranger into the fight they’ve only just stalled. “Did you think I was just some kid unable to defend myself?” His mouth twists, his smirk drags wider. “You really are an idiot.” And he takes a step forward, swinging so easily through the motion Shizuo doesn’t have time to catch his arm and hold him back out of range of danger. Izaya’s past him, the stranger is right in front of him; and the man stumbles backwards, retreating on unsteady feet as if Izaya’s approach portends some sincere danger to himself.

“We’ll get you back,” the man manages, looking away from Izaya’s face for a moment to glare at Shizuo. “Orihara Izaya. Heiwajima Shizuo. Blue Square will remember you, you’d better be ready.”

Shizuo blinks, understanding of the stranger’s initial statement finally falling into place in his mind as he recalls the distant sound of an attacker’s voice: _you’ll regret making an enemy of Blue Square_ shouted with the same meaningless vehemence as this parting blow, and Izaya lifts his arms, tips his head into sharp-angled amusement that Shizuo can understand from the whole stance of his body without even needing to see the cut of his smile.

“We’re ready now. Do you need to get your buddies with you to feel strong enough to take on two middle schoolers?”

“Fuck you,” the stranger growls, backing up another step. “You’re just kids.”

“And you’re running,” Izaya says, his voice skipping high on laughter as the stranger turns to retreat in full. Shizuo thinks he might say something else, might have more reckless words to fling at the other’s retreating back; but the threat is leaving, the possibility of danger evaporating, and Shizuo’s adrenaline is turning itself down a completely different track. He reaches out, closes his hand into a fist of Izaya’s shirt, and drags him back, hard, before the other has a chance to react to the force.

“What the _fuck_ was that,” he says, hissing the words past gritted teeth as Izaya trips and nearly falls to the drag of Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo would apologize, would feel bad for his accidental force; but panic is too bright in him, fear of what could have happened is too shaky-strong in his veins. “Did you just pick a fight with an _entire gang_?”

“You really don’t understand manipulation,” Izaya informs him. He’s got his feet back under him, has his balance mostly steadied again, but he’s not trying to pull free, is letting his weight hang unresisting from the drag of Shizuo’s hold at his shirt. “I just _ended_ a fight. It may be difficult for you to tell the difference, but possibly you’ve noticed that I’m neither bleeding nor bruised and he’s _gone_.”

“He could be back,” Shizuo says, the words frail framework for the concern in his chest, for the shadow of what could have happened that is forming itself in the back of his mind.

“He won’t,” Izaya says, dismissing Shizuo’s worries as easily as he always has. “He thinks he’ll have to go through you to get to me and you already took out a half dozen of his gang by yourself.”

Shizuo frowns at the reminder, at the memory of the threat that seemed so harmless at the time but seems so weighty levelled against the too-fragile shape of the boy in front of him. “You weren’t even _there_ ,” he says, his voice wobbling audibly in his throat over the delayed-reaction fear for Izaya’s safety he can’t shake from his mind. “That had _nothing_ to do with you, why the hell would you pretend it did?”

Izaya’s eyelashes dip, his smile fading from the crystalline edge it had. “Because.” He lifts a hand to curl his fingers in around Shizuo’s wrist and press his thumb to the inside of the other’s arm. Shizuo can feel the separate bones of Izaya’s fingers like brands against his skin, a restraint he could shake off if he didn’t care so much about keeping it whole. “This way I could get credit for the result.” Izaya pushes, his thumb digging in sharp against Shizuo’s skin, and Shizuo lets his hold go along with the bright edge of his panic, easing his fingers away from Izaya’s shirt as his chest loosens enough to let him take a breath. Izaya’s gaze meeting his is very dark. “And now Blue Square thinks I have a bodyguard.”

“You _don’t_.” Shizuo’s wrist is still in Izaya’s hold, his hand stalled in midair by the grip of the other’s fingers. He doesn’t look away from Izaya’s eyes, doesn’t try to pull his hand free even as his chest constricts on a shiver of unnecessary panic, as he opens his mouth to let the obvious question fall free of his lips. “What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”

Izaya’s eyelashes flutter. “Does it matter?” he asks, and drops his hold, pulling his touch away to let Shizuo’s hand fall back to his side. “You were.”

Shizuo flinches at the double impact of the statement, the relief of the truth of it and the shiver of fear at the unspoken alternative. “I might not be next time.”

Izaya tips his head to the side, his hair falling into a shadow in front of his eyes. “Well then,” he says, as his mouth drags into his usual vicious smile. “You’ll just have to look after me all the time, won’t you, senpai?”

It’s a joke. Shizuo knows it is, can hear the taunt on Izaya’s voice as clearly as if it were written in front of him. He can still feel the words shudder through him as if they have a weight all their own, as if Izaya has handed his personal safety into Shizuo’s clumsy hold without even batting an eye at the danger Shizuo poses to everyone around him, the danger Izaya has seen himself on more than one occasion.

Izaya is joking, but still. It’s nice to be trusted.


	18. Actions

Shizuo never thought asking a question would be so difficult.

He’s gotten better at handling the constant electricity that comes with Izaya’s presence since his personal realization almost a year ago. It’s strange to think that he’s in love with his best friend, the stranger when he thinks about the fact that Izaya hasn’t noticed or hasn’t admitted to noticing; Shizuo can think back on some of those first few interactions after his internal crisis and cringes at how obvious his every action feels in retrospect, when even his attempts at casual interaction twisted to stuttering awkwardness by his own self-consciousness. But he can barely remember the objective details of those interactions at all for the overwhelming weight of his own near-panic during them; maybe he was far less obvious than he felt like he was, maybe his behavior seemed hardly unusual when seen through Izaya’s eyes instead of the self-awareness of his own. And it’s gotten easier since then, simpler to fall into the habits of familiarity around the constant presence of affection in his chest, until the fact of his own infatuation feels almost unimportant, a fact about him to be accepted and ignored the same way he ignores the sound of his own voice in his throat. Usually Shizuo can work around it, can go whole hours without consciously looking at the faint ache in his chest whenever Izaya’s mouth curves onto a laugh or when he reaches over Shizuo for something and Shizuo can see the casual grace in the movement of his fingers. It’s bearable, at least, and that’s enough to live with, a burden that Shizuo can imagine carrying through his life without major issues.

At least, that’s how it usually is. But today Shizuo has a question to ask, has been turning it over and over in his head all day instead of paying attention to class or to the casual taunts Izaya greeted him with at lunch, and his heart has been pounding him into overactive adrenaline all day, as if he’s fallen back in time by months to the first few weeks of hyperaware stress, when every flutter of Izaya’s lashes nearly stopped his heart. His throat keeps closing up on tension, his shoulders keep hunching, and he can feel every second like a countdown, like an audible reminder that he has to say it, that he has to ask, that he’s running out of time to frame words for his request. It didn’t seem like that big a deal this morning during his walk to school, when he decided to bring up the subject with Izaya over lunch; but it’s been gaining importance all day, until he feels like the words are going to give him away the moment he opens his mouth and lets them free. But he has to ask, he told himself he would and that means he has to, and finally he just does, blurting “Are you going to be alone on Christmas again?” while Izaya is distracted by leaning as hard against Shizuo’s shoulder as if he’s trying to knock him over onto the rooftop.

Shizuo can feel his heartrate pick up as soon as the words are past his lips, can feel adrenaline spike hot in his veins; but Izaya just says, “I don’t know,” as calmly as if he didn’t notice the strain on Shizuo’s voice or the jittery tension running all through the other’s body. Shizuo turns his head to look at Izaya from under his hair but Izaya’s not even looking at him; he has his head tipped up and is gazing at the sky with half-formed attention behind his eyes. His features look more delicate in profile, with the line of his nose and the dark of his lashes framed by the pale of the clouds overhead; Shizuo can see his lips shift on the tension of a smile, knows that he’s about to be teased in the moment before Izaya continues, “I could have a harem of girlfriends by then, Shizuo-senpai, it’s hard to say.”

Shizuo’s skin goes cold for a moment of unjustified jealousy. “Don’t be a brat,” he says, pushing hard against Izaya to shove him off and away with more force than he intends before Izaya notices the flicker of hurt that Shizuo can feel aching in his chest and over his expression. Izaya tips sideways, catching himself against the rooftop as he starts to fall, and when he glances back at Shizuo his smile is so sharp it makes the taunt under his statement clear as nothing more than mockery. Shizuo has to take a breath before the strain in his chest eases, before he can blink back the hurt in his eyes, and when he goes on the shape of the invitation he so agonized over sounds like more of a subject change than the telltale hope he was afraid it would. “Shinra’s talking about having a party. You should come too.”

“Maybe I have better things to do.” Izaya’s still watching Shizuo; his eyes are dark with amusement to match the smirk still clinging to his lips and the laughter dark in his throat. “It’s always easier to win money when the other players are tipsy on celebratory sake.”

Shizuo flinches from the image. “Shit,” he breathes, letting his hold at Izaya’s shoulder go and ducking his head to stare down at his lap. He can picture it too-clearly, Izaya in some shadowy room surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke and men wearing danger as easily as well-tailored suits, his fingers too-fast over playing cards or poker chips and that smile begging for a punch or worse, that voice that won’t stop reaching for danger. It would be so easy for him to push too far, to treat his own safety as a game in the wrong company and the wrong place; Shizuo’s heart twists at the idea, his skin prickling with horror at the thought. He wonders if he would even know if something happened, if Izaya wouldn’t just disappear like a shadow with the coming of the dawn and evaporate back out of his life as fast as he toppled into it. His throat is tight with the idea, his hands trembling for lack of utility, for the inability to do anything to stop the crisis he can see too clearly in his imagination; but there’s nothing to do, no action he can take to undo the danger Izaya is so keen on surrounding himself with, and in the end all he can manage is the complete inadequacy of “You shouldn’t fuck around with the color gangs, you know,” as if that understatement is likely to so much as ruffle Izaya’s composure.

“They aren’t the color gangs,” Izaya informs him. “It’s just a friendly game of betting.”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” Shizuo tells him, feeling certainty he doesn’t want heavy on his tongue. “You never take it seriously but you’re playing with _adults_ , people with _weapons_. They could really hurt you and no one would be able to even do anything about it afterwards.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” Izaya says, but he sounds unsteady just for a moment, like he might actually be considering the possibility. Shizuo’s heart lifts, hope lighting itself bright in his veins; but then Izaya laughs, a sharp cough of sound loud enough to chase away any hope Shizuo had of winning his point. “Is this what you do with your free time, worry what trouble I’m getting into?”

“Of _course_ I worry,” Shizuo snaps, looking up to glare frustration at the other boy. It’s the laughter, he thinks, that crackles so bright through him, that sparks the beginning of anger into his veins; it’s the amusement that falls so easily from Izaya’s lips at Shizuo’s concern, as if the mere possibility of someone caring about his safety is too absurd to bear. It aches in him, runs up against the barrier of self-conscious on his tongue and sweeps over it until he’s blurting more honesty than he intends, spilling words on a flood of frustrated fear before he can think them through. “Every time we’re downtown I’m worried Blue Square’s going to decide to get revenge for some stupid thing you did to them.” He ducks his head, reaches out to brace the strain in his fingers against the rooftop like that will ground him to silence; but adrenaline is too hot in him, long-held fear too well-formed to stop his speech once he’s started. “At least I’m there, though. What if you had been on your own when that guy came after you?”

“Izumii,” Izaya corrects, and Shizuo looks up at him again, his mouth dragging hard to a frown at the corners.

“Like _that_ ,” he growls. “You shouldn’t even _know_ that, you’re a _middle schooler_. How do you know the name of the head of Blue Square?”

“I pay attention,” Izaya says. He’s staring at Shizuo as intently as if he’s trying to see right through him; his mouth is relaxed, his smile forgotten somewhere in the intensity of his attention. “That’s _why_ I’ll be fine. I’m not stupid, senpai, I can make myself valuable enough to stay safe.”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo snaps, rejection too fast in his throat to let him decide what it is he’s pushing away: Izaya’s paper-thin claim to safety, his overreaching trust in his own cleverness, his assumption that he has to _make_ value for himself, as if he’s not the most important thing in Shizuo’s life just as he is. When Shizuo reaches out it’s violence wound tight in his shoulder, aggression trying to dig its claws into him and shove him into the satisfaction of a fight; it’s only months of habit that stops the swing of his arm from becoming a punch, only caution ingrained deep into his fingers that stalls his hand from curling into a fist and lets his hand shove at Izaya’s hair instead of knocking him down to convey Shizuo’s point without the attempt of words that never quite do what he wants them to. “You should just _stay safe_ , leave this kind of thing to adults.” Shizuo’s anger shifts, unravelling from the first surge of aggressive irritation as his fingers touch Izaya’s hair, as he feels how easily the other gives way to the force of his touch, and it’s pain that clenches tight in his chest, that seizes around his heart as if to steal the breath from his lungs. Shizuo sucks in an inhale, affection and concern aching into a harmony of caring in him, and when his fingers curl to pull Izaya in towards him the other capitulates as easily to the pull as he did to the push, toppling sideways and against Shizuo’s chest before he can think through the action. Izaya takes a sharp breath, makes a startled gasp of sound against Shizuo’s jacket, but for a moment Shizuo can’t let him go, can’t do anything but tighten his hold to press Izaya closer like he can make a wall of defense for the other with the span of his own shoulders. Shizuo’s heart is pounding, his fingers tense against the soft dark of Izaya’s hair, and Izaya is stiff and awkward against him but he doesn’t let him go, and when he takes a breath it’s deliberately, it’s with the weight of sincerity forming itself to coherency on his tongue.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, the words going ragged around the weight of emotion in his throat, the preemptive terror of what-might-be still running through his body in expectation of a fight that has yet to materialize, in defense of what isn’t even threatened, yet. Shizuo’s whole face is hot, his cheeks burning to self-consciousness at the sound of his voice so desperate in his throat; but he keeps talking anyway, fighting for the words to express the weight of affection far heavier against his chest than the burden of Izaya leaning against him. “Don’t do something stupid and get yourself hurt.”

It’s not enough. The words aren’t enough, they don’t carry enough of the weight to capture the ache in Shizuo’s throat or the self-aware heat flickering all across his skin. But his arm is tight around Izaya’s shoulders, his fingers pressing close into the other’s hair, and Shizuo thinks that might be doing a better job of speaking for him than his voice can manage.

His actions have always been louder than his words.


	19. Comfort

“You should have worn a jacket,” Shizuo tells Izaya almost before he has the door open to let the other in. “You’re going to freeze if you keep wandering around town like you have been.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Izaya says, but he’s quick enough to follow Shizuo into the entryway that Shizuo bumps against him as he lets the door swing shut again. “It’s fine, it’s not even that cold.”

“It is cold,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to press his palm against the wind-chilled air clinging to Izaya’s shirt. At least it’s thicker than the ones he sometimes wears; those leave him shivering so badly he can barely speak coherently for minutes after he makes it to Shizuo’s house. “What do you have against being comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” Izaya says, and he’s pulling away before Shizuo can reach out to stop him, moving to sit at the edge of the entryway as he pulls his shoes off. “It just makes me happier to be here.”

Shizuo’s heart stutters in his chest. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s blushing, his cheeks are going warmer even though he knows Izaya’s teasing him more than sincere. Izaya’s head is still ducked down over his shoes and he doesn’t look up when he huffs a laugh of response; Shizuo clears his throat and turns away, retreating down the hallway while Izaya is lingering over his shoes. There’s a table along the side of the hall, the flat surface usually given over to catch jackets and occasional textbooks when Shizuo isn’t motivated enough to actually put them away where they belong, but right now it’s clear of everything except for a few neatly wrapped presents in plain paper. Shizuo doesn’t have the check the names on the packages; he knows what’s behind the loops of ribbon and folds of paper, can reach over the presents for Kasuka’s friends to pick up the larger, softer package absent anything but his own knowledge of what’s inside to identify it. It’s light in his hands, the paper crumpling to press close against the weight inside, and Shizuo’s breath catches on another rush of adrenaline, the same one that hits him every time he thinks about the gift in his hands, self-consciousness flaring hot across his cheeks with a blush he can’t shake off. He has to take a minute to collect himself, a moment to steady his breathing to something approximating ordinary calm, and it’s only then that he turns around to head back down the hallway and find where Izaya has gone.

It’s not a difficult search. Izaya never fails to beeline for the kotatsu after he arrives, the speed of his retreat there entirely undermining his unfailing claims to be unaffected by the cold, and he’s there as soon as Shizuo comes in the door, his legs tucked under the warmth and his hands curled into the edge of the blanket. There’s a little bit more color in his cheeks, some of the pale chill of the outdoors has faded to a more human glow, and he looks up as Shizuo comes in, his lips curving onto a grin as he sees the other.

“Thank god,” he drawls. “If you didn’t come back soon I was…” Shizuo can see his gaze drop to the package in the other’s hands, can see Izaya’s smile flicker out-of-focus as he sees what Shizuo is holding; his voice fades to silence, speech giving way to the weight of shock as he stares at the looping ribbons winding around the present in Shizuo’s grip. There’s complete silence for a moment, with nothing but the sound of Shizuo’s heart beating loud in his ears as Izaya stares at his gift; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and says, “Here,” and steps forward to shove the present in Izaya’s direction.

Izaya doesn’t take it for a moment. He’s still gazing at the package instead of looking up to see the way Shizuo’s entire face is glowing into embarrassment; he looks completely blank, as if he’s struggling to gain some kind of comprehension on what is happening. Shizuo just waits, holding the present out over the space between them, and finally Izaya unwinds a hand from the edge of the kotatsu and reaches up to brace his grip against the edge of the package.

“Merry Christmas,” Shizuo says, the words rough on self-consciousness in his throat, and he lets his hold go so he can move away and sit down on the other side of the kotatsu. His cheeks are burning, his embarrassment so strong he’s not sure he’ll ever lose the glow hot under his skin; but Izaya’s not looking at him still, hasn’t yet lifted his focus from the package held in his hand.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he says finally, still staring fixedly at the present like he can unwrap it through the power of concentration without physical effort.

“It’s fine,” Shizuo says. His voice grates on his tongue and tries to crack high in the back of his mouth. “You didn’t need to get me anything.” He has to cough to clear his throat, and even then his voice is shaking audibly to his ears. “It’s still for you. I’m not going to take it back or anything.”

“Oh,” Izaya says. He blinks hard, his mouth tightening to the beginnings of a frown for a moment; and then he moves all at once, setting his fingers in against the wrapping and digging in hard to tear through the clean lines of the paper. Shizuo had half-expected Izaya to be careful with unwrapping, deliberate about the action the same way Kasuka is, as if the process of easing the paper off is as much a rehearsed performance as the satisfaction of anticipation; but he tears right through the tape and paper, dragging at the ribbon until it snaps under the force of his fingers and with as much speed as if his present is likely to evaporate before he gets it in his hands. Shizuo barely has time to take a breath of panicked anticipation; and then the wrapping is off, and Izaya’s present topples into his lap.

Izaya doesn’t say anything for a minute. His head is tipped down, his hair falling in front of his face to shadow over his eyes; all Shizuo can see of his expression is his mouth, his lips so flat and still that Shizuo can’t get any kind of a read off of them even from across the width of the kotatsu. He pushes the wrapping aside without looking at it, crumpling the paper and shoving at it without watching, and it’s only then that he reaches down to settle his fingers into the soft of the jacket in his lap.

“You said you’d wear one,” Shizuo says from the other side of the table. His throat is tight on strain and the words come out shaky and trembling; he has to close his mouth to collect himself, has to swallow hard before he can trust himself to make an attempt at speech. “Before.”

“If I had one I liked,” Izaya says without looking up. His voice is as unreadable as what of his expression Shizuo can see; but his hands are trailing over the lines of the jacket, his fingers winding into the soft of the pale fur around the hood and the cuffs of the dark coat. “Something in my style.”

“You don’t have to wear it,” Shizuo manages around the blush still hot across his cheeks and tense in his throat. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. I just thought--” he sees the end of his sentence coming, stutters for a moment of too-late hesitation over the admission, but it’s falling from his lips before he can hold it back: “--it would look good on you.”

Izaya looks up. His mouth is still soft, still so relaxed as to show no trace of his self-conscious frown or the amused smirk that is more typical against his lips; but his eyes are wide, his stare so startled Shizuo’s blush gains an entire second wave of heat to burn across his skin. He can see the color behind Izaya’s eyes, can pick out traces of crimson in the shadows of the other’s stare, and he should really probably look away but he can’t make himself blink when Izaya is looking at him like that. They’re both quiet for a moment, staring at each other from across the span of the kotatsu; then “Oh,” Izaya says, and blinks, and ducks his head to look down at his lap again. “Well.”

Shizuo takes a breath, trying to calm the thud of his heart in his chest in the moment he is free of Izaya’s attention. “You don’t have to--”

“Weren’t you going to make tea?” Izaya asks abruptly, cutting off Shizuo’s half-apologetic reassurance before it’s well-formed. “It’s freezing in here, can’t you afford to turn up the thermostat by a few degrees?”

“What?” Shizuo asks, startled by the sudden subject change. “Oh. Right.” He retreats from the edge of the kotatsu, pushing to his feet so he can go in pursuit of tea. “One sec.”

He starts the water first, leaves the kettle to heat while he goes to turn up the heat; but the thermostat is reading higher than it usually is, and the air is radiant-warm against Shizuo’s skin when he pays attention to it. He frowns at the display, leaves it where it is as the kettle starts to whistle with steam, and by the time he’s heading back into the living room he has an apology ready at his lips to offer along with the cup of tea in his hold.

“The heater’s already turned up,” he says as he steps through the doorway. “I’m not supposed to--” and Izaya looks back at him, and Shizuo goes quiet as he sees the dark of the jacket around the other’s shoulders.

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, watching the cup of tea instead of Shizuo’s face. “If you were trying to freeze me out of your house, senpai, you really made a mistake in your choice of gift.” He lifts a hand to gesture towards Shizuo’s hands. “At least give me the tea.”

Shizuo steps forward to offer a cup to Izaya’s casually dominant gesture. He’s still looking at the weight of the coat around the other’s shoulders, at the length of the sleeves gathering at the thin of the other’s wrists. “It’s too big,” he says as Izaya takes the cup from his hands to cradle between his palms. “Sorry.”

“Do you usually apologize for giving presents?” Izaya asks against the edge of his cup. “I’m not overly familiar with the process but I’m fairly sure you’re doing it wrong.” He takes a sip before Shizuo can warn him of the heat, but even though the liquid must be scalding he doesn’t visibly flinch. He leans in against the table, bracing his elbows at the support; the movement leaves the back of his neck bare, shows an inch of pale skin between the top edge of his shirt and the soft of his hair tangling against his skin.

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, very softly, and Shizuo’s attention comes back up from the back of the other’s neck to his face. Izaya still has his head bowed over the tea, still has his hair half-shadowing his face, but his cheeks are faintly pink when Shizuo looks for it, collecting heat that has nothing to do with the steam rising from the tea in his hands. “Thank you.”

Shizuo can feel his heart skip, can feel his breath catch in his throat; for a moment it’s impossible to even think clearly, much less to find the coherency to shape around the framework of words.

“Yeah,” he finally manages, and steps forward around the edge of the kotatsu to come to the far side. “You’re welcome.”

Izaya doesn’t look up from his tea as Shizuo sits down, keeps his head bowed and his shoulders tipped in as if he’s trying to protect the warmth of the liquid from the nonexistent chill in the air. But when Shizuo slides his feet under the kotatsu Izaya pushes against him, his toes catching at the edge of Shizuo’s jeans, and when Shizuo lets his knee fall wide Izaya slides his foot up against the other’s ankle to press just over the knob at his ankle.

His feet are warm against Shizuo’s skin.


	20. Impulse

“Kasuka got a perfect score on his latest mathematics test,” Shizuo’s mother says to his father, the words warm and easy to ignore in the low hum of familiarity that comes with them. “The extra work you did with him really paid off.”

“Did he?” Shizuo’s father says, warmly enough that Shizuo can hear the smile on his voice. “That’s great, son.”

“Yeah.” Kasuka, that time, sounding as disinterested as he does in any subject, even those that relate to his own successes. “Thanks.”

Shizuo is barely listening to the conversation. He’s been absorbed in the simple satisfaction of enjoying his dinner and appreciating his father being home early on a worknight; there’s something comforting about having all four of them sitting in one place together, even if it’s an unusual enough occurrence to merit a pair of extra side dishes provided by his mother’s pleasure in the event. He’s expecting the dialogue to continue as it has been, working over domestic trivialities between his parents or extolling Kasuka’s latest academic achievement, so he’s not prepared at all when his mother says, “And Shizuo got accepted at Raijin!” sounding so warm the words seem to glow in the air.

Shizuo startles at the sound of his name, his attention dragged sharply back to the present by the statement. When he lifts his head everyone is watching him, his mother beaming pride and his father looking startled but pleased. Even Kasuka has looked up, although this isn’t news to him or of great importance in any case; for just a moment Shizuo feels a shiver of discomfort just from being the recipient of so much attention all at the same time.

“Good job,” Shizuo’s father says, smiling the proud smile that makes the very corners of his eyes crinkle into warmth. “I knew you could do it.”

“He’s been studying for weeks,” his mother puts in, still glowing happiness in Shizuo’s general direction. “Even getting his friends to help him.”

“It’s fine,” Shizuo says, ducking his head to the burn of embarrassment starting to spread across his cheeks. “It wasn’t that hard to get in.”

“You still made it,” Shizuo’s father tells him, reaching across the table to pat his shoulder. “That takes effort.”

“You didn’t get expelled from middle school either,” Kasuka puts in with the blunt honesty that always frames anything he says into cool sincerity. “Graduating is pretty impressive.”

Shizuo glances at him sideways, feeling his mouth tug on a smile as his mother tsks at Kasuka for his comment. “You sound like Izaya-kun.”

“It is impressive,” Kasuka says with the absolutely flat tone that seems to indicate precisely the opposite. “You’ve calmed down a lot since you started middle school.”

“That’s true,” Shizuo’s father allows from the other side of the table. “For a while there I thought you’d never give up fighting.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight,” Shizuo says to the table, frowning hard as if to glare right through the surface. “I just get angry.”

“There, there,” his mother puts in, and reaches out to ruffle a hand through his hair. Shizuo knows he ought to protest this on principle -- he’s going to start high school in a few weeks, and this is hardly something he can let stand then -- but all he can manage is to lean away after a few seconds, and even then he’s starting to smile without meaning to, too pleased by the unexpected praise to find it in him to resist. “We’re all very proud of you, you know, Shizuo.”

“What are you going to do for high school?” Kasuka asks from the other side of the table. He’s looking back at his dinner, his attention fixed on the food in front of him rather than on Shizuo; the question is so off-hand Shizuo can’t even make sense of it for the first moment.

“What?” he asks, frowning through the first breaths of confusion. “What are you talking about?”  
“You’re going to high school with new classmates,” Kasuka says, taking a bite of his food and pausing to chew and swallow before he goes on. “You could reinvent yourself if you wanted.”

Shizuo shrugs one-shouldered. “It’s fine,” he says, looking back to his own meal. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what I look like as long as I--”

He’s not trying to think of Izaya. Shizuo rarely makes the effort to call up the other boy’s face, or smile, or laugh; those are all just things that come naturally, that flicker in and out of his awareness with such regularity that he’s stopped even blushing about them, that he doesn’t even blink when he’s interrupted in the middle of the almost-daydreams that catch and hold his attention whenever he has a few minutes of peace without another subject in mind. But this is still startlingly clear, even for his own imagination, Izaya’s voice as bright as a recording in his head: you have to look at least as dangerous as you are, the weight of slender fingers catching and dragging through his hair with far more shivering electricity than his mother’s touch brought just now. He can see Izaya’s smile, can hear the spark and cut of the other’s laugh as Shizuo pulled him forward and close against him to cut off his argument; for just a moment he can almost smell metal in the air, can almost taste licorice on his tongue.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s impulse in his throat and adrenaline hot in his veins, and probably he should think about this longer but for just a moment imagination catches fire in his mind, for just a moment reflex makes the decision instead of rationality. “Actually. I’ve been thinking about bleaching my hair.”

Shizuo wonders if Izaya feels this reckless satisfaction whenever he does anything. With the crackle of excitement in his veins, he can understand the appeal.


	21. Steam

The water is cold against Shizuo’s hair.

There’s no particular need for this. As far as Shizuo knows, the bleaching process is all but complete already; he doesn’t think the temperature of the water is likely to make any difference, now that the chemicals that have been burning a dull ache against his scalp have done what they’re meant to do. He thinks it’s probably just Izaya being a brat and not letting the water run warm enough for comfort before he rinses the bleach out; but the other reached out as soon as Shizuo took a breath for protest and sank his fingers into the tangled weight of Shizuo’s hair to drag across his scalp, and Shizuo had to shut his mouth hard on the sound that threatened the back of his throat before he actually whimpered at the friction of Izaya’s touch against. His skin is aching faintly, as if the chemicals left to soak into his hair have left him with a mild sunburn wherever they lingered; but the sensation is wholly eclipsed by the electricity of Izaya’s touch, as if the extra sensitivity of Shizuo’s skin has only compounded the usual starbright friction that Izaya’s fingers carry. It was bad enough when they started, with Izaya wetting Shizuo’s hair flat to his head before working the chemicals into the dark strands with a touch far gentler than any Shizuo has yet felt from him; Shizuo had to shut his eyes to the sensation of it, had to concentrate on breathing as normally as he could while his heart tried to pound itself out-of-rhythm in his chest as if to meet the delicate weight of Izaya’s hands in his hair. But this is almost worse, Shizuo thinks, with the extra sensitivity of his skin prickling anticipation in advance of each of Izaya’s movements, until it’s all he can do to manage “How does it look?” with any oddities in his tone hopefully disguised by the water cascading over his head and splashing across his bare shoulders. “Did you miss any parts?”

“Of course I did.” Izaya drags his fingers across the top of Shizuo’s head, pressing harder than he did before; Shizuo shudders at the weight of his touch, his shoulders hunching in like he’s lost his ability to keep himself upright, but if Izaya notices he doesn’t comment, just draws his hand back to slide his fingers through the spray of the water again. “Sorry, did you not want a checkerboard pattern?”

“Don’t be a brat.” Shizuo’s heart is still beating double-time, anxiety about the effect of the bleach warring for control over his pulse with the constant adrenaline that comes with Izaya’s presence. “How is it?”

Izaya’s fingers drag through Shizuo’s hair, tugging against the strands like he’s holding them up for consideration. “Terrible.” His hold slides away, his hand presses against Shizuo’s forehead; Shizuo tips his head back in obedience to the pull of the other’s touch, fighting to hold his expression steady as Izaya’s fingers wind into his hair to sweep it back from his forehead and into the splash of the water. “Turns out this was an awful idea, senpai.”

Shizuo can hear the amusement in Izaya’s voice. “Fine. Don’t tell me, I’ll just wait to see for myself.” Izaya’s hand slides back into his hair and he leans backwards without thinking to follow it, trailing the contact until his shoulders bump against resistance and the soft of fabric catches and clings to the wet of his shoulders. Shizuo’s heart skids, his breathing sticking on sudden awareness of how close Izaya is, of how near he must be standing to lean over him like he is, and when he speaks he can feel his voice quavering in his throat. “Aren’t you going to get wet standing that close?”

“Nah,” Izaya purrs, and his fingers close on Shizuo’s hair and drag hard against the other’s oversensitive scalp. “It’s fine.” Shizuo huffs at the hurt of it, pain overriding his hyperawareness of Izaya’s proximity for just a moment as he leans back to ease the tension. His shoulders catch against the other’s shirt again, his weight pressing close against Izaya’s stomach, and for a moment all he can smell is that weird bitter sweetness in the air, like the heat of Izaya’s skin is enough to overcome even the harsh drag of chemicals hanging in the steam around them.

“If you say so,” Shizuo allows. His heart is going too fast, refusing to ease even when he tries to breathe normally; he lifts a hand to push through the weight of his wet hair, to expend some of his nervous energy with the ease of the physical action. There’s no trace of the slick chemicals in the strands when he feels for them; his hair is just wet, rinsed back to clean by Izaya’s efforts. “Isn’t it all out now?”  
“Almost,” Izaya says, and Shizuo just has time to hear the laughter under the other’s voice before the spray of the water hits him full in the face. He gasps some protest rendered incoherent by the splash of water in his mouth and flails sideways in instinctive reaction; his fingers catch skin, his hand shoves against a wrist, and the water swings away to splash in an arc all across Shizuo’s mostly-dry jeans. Shizuo opens his eyes, reaches out to grab at Izaya’s wrist; and Izaya drops the showerhead, stepping away and back as it falls to spin against the floor. Shizuo turns his head aside in instinctive reaction, as if looking away will save him from the wet, but the showerhead just topples sideways to spray across his chest and soak through the leg of his jeans.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo blurts, kicking himself sideways in an attempt to stage a too-late retreat and keep his clothes dry.  
Izaya’s laugh is sharp from behind him, crackling into delight in the other’s throat as his fingers settle into the weight of Shizuo’s wet hair. “You’re already soaked,” he says, taking a step so Shizuo can feel the other pressing close against his shoulder as he uses Shizuo as a makeshift wall. “Just stay there and keep me safe from the water.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo tells him as he twists to make a grab for the other boy. Izaya leans back but it’s not far enough to dodge Shizuo’s reach, not enough to keep his hand free of Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo’s fingers drag across damp skin, his hold curling in tight against Izaya’s wrist, and when he pulls Izaya stumbles forward, his usual easy grace stripped by the wet of the floor as his footing skids to drop him forward hard across Shizuo’s lap. For a moment his weight is heavy over Shizuo’s legs, one hand bracing hard against the other’s thigh; but Shizuo’s moving fast, twisting before appreciation of the position can win a self-conscious flush from his cheeks and sliding off his seat entirely to spill them both onto the floor. Izaya lands hard against the tile, his breath rushing out of him in an audible huff, and Shizuo lands on top of him, his knees angled open around Izaya’s hips as his weight holds the other to the floor without a chance of winning freedom.

“You _brat_ ,” Shizuo says, the words catching to laughter on the adrenaline surging to an open flame all through his veins. Izaya is blinking hard, his expression knocked blank by his impact with the floor; there are water droplets clinging to his lashes, a haze of humidity in the air casting his features to unusual softness along with the force of distraction from his fall. His mouth is wet from the damp, his lips parted on the effort of his half-stunned breathing, and for just a moment Shizuo’s heart stutters over a beat, his pulse skipping out-of-time in his throat as he stares at Izaya pinned under him. It’s only for a moment; then Izaya shakes his head, some of the focus coming back into his gaze, and Shizuo reaches out without looking for the showerhead still splashing water at them both.

“Take that,” he says, his voice wobbling over heat in his throat, and he turns the spray at the other boy’s face in petty vengeance for the water dripping from his jeans. Izaya chokes protest, turning his head away from the splash of the water as he reaches up to shove blindly at the spray, and Shizuo grins even with his heart pounding doubletime in his chest.

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya sputters, coughing through a laugh as his fingers catch at the showerhead and drag down to shove against Shizuo’s hand. “Stop, _stop_!”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shizuo says, but the words turn in his throat to come out warm with affection. He lets the showerhead go, leaving it to splash water into an arc across the floor again, and Izaya gasps a breath and lifts a hand to drag a dripping sleeve across his face. His cheeks are flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead; Shizuo can see the edge of his collarbones under his shirt with how close the wet fabric clings to his skin. It’s only as Izaya shifts that Shizuo realizes he’s still straddling the other, only as Izaya blinks his vision back to clarity that Shizuo thinks to pull back and turn his head away to hide the embarrassed color that sweeps over his cheeks at the realization of how close they were.

“Have you ever tried just being nice for once?” he asks, the question more a means of distracting Izaya away from Shizuo’s self-conscious flush as he shuts off the faucet than a real inquiry.

“No.” Izaya’s pushing his hair back from his face when Shizuo turns back around, his head ducked as he tries to strip water from the strands with the force of his touch. “You’d die of shock, and I’d hate to have my senpai’s death on my conscience.”

Shizuo huffs a smile. “Brat.”

“Bully,” Izaya tells him, lifting his head to glance at Shizuo from behind damp-shadowed lashes as his mouth drags into a smirk. “You shouldn’t pick on people weaker than you, senpai.” He rolls his shoulders back, frowning hard at the motion; his shirt is sticking to him everywhere it touches, Shizuo can see the unthinking elegance of the movement through the whole flex of Izaya’s chest under the fabric. “Am I supposed to just go home like this?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo tells him, and reaches out to offer his hand. Izaya takes it without hesitating, his fingers curling in tight around Shizuo’s wrist, and Shizuo pulls him to his feet in a rush. Izaya’s footing slips, his balance wobbling against the wet floor before he catches himself enough to let Shizuo’s hand go. He’s close enough for Shizuo to smell the warmth of his damp skin in the air; it takes an active effort for Shizuo to not step in closer and press his nose against the tangle of Izaya’s hair or the pale curve of his throat and breathe in until he’s filled his lungs with that odd lingering aroma. Shizuo swallows, takes a breath, wills his heart to beat less rapidly. “You can borrow some of my clothes while those are drying.”

Izaya cuts a frown up at Shizuo. “Your clothes don’t _fit_ me,” he complains. “I don’t want to walk home looking like I can’t dress myself.”

“So stay until yours are dry.” Shizuo can feel the beginnings of desperation in his chest, the painful edge of hope and desire tangling together into something that hisses for relief from the pressure of his ribcage. He can imagine his clothes against Izaya’s shoulders, the way the too-big lines will frame the delicate edges of the other’s body into something the more appealing for the juxtaposition, the way the fabric will catch and hold the coffee-rich smell of Izaya’s skin even after the other has left. “You weren’t planning on just leaving as soon as we were done, were you?”

“Hmm,” Izaya hums at him, his frown giving way to tension against the damp curve of his lips. “I was, but if you’re _that_ desperate for company…”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, and pushes against the wet of Izaya’s hair to shove him away. Izaya stumbles over the tile, his footing less secure than Shizuo thought it was, but he lands against the wall instead of falling to the floor, and that tension at his lips is giving way to a grin as he catches himself back to upright.

“ _Stay_ ,” Shizuo tells Izaya, feeling his shoulders tense on the familiar, aching desire to keep Izaya as long as he can, to frame him with the warmth of a warm house and the comfort of family and food and to satisfy Shizuo’s own selfish desire to have him close enough to touch at a moment’s notice if the everpresent pressure of longing gets too much to bear. “You can go home after dinner, alright?”

Izaya’s grin dissolves into a laugh, the easy sound of it as good an answer as words would be, and when he pushes away from the wall Shizuo steps in towards him and reaches out to loop an arm around Izaya’s shoulders as they move towards the door. It’s part apology for his too-hasty push a moment before, part to keep Izaya’s footing steady against the wet of the tile; but mostly it’s because in the first moment of pulling Izaya in closer Shizuo can take a breath against the wet of the other’s hair, can fill his lungs with the damp heat of that elusive smell against Izaya’s skin.

Izaya smells rich like coffee and bitter like licorice; but against Shizuo’s tongue, he tastes like vanilla.


	22. Timely

High school is more pleasant than Shizuo expects.

He was braced for the worst. His first few days at middle school were the hardest he had in all three years, with his name just well-known enough from his elementary school exploits to get him all kinds of unwanted attention from new schoolmates determined to try their strength against him. Usually it takes weeks before the challengers fade, days before he can make it home unaccosted by upperclassmen anxious to try their hand against his infamous strength. But maybe high schoolers are more rational about the fights they pick, or maybe his name is familiar enough by now to stop even the most reckless gang members at Rajin; or maybe it’s like Izaya said, and his newly blond hair is enough to scare off possible attackers. In any case, Shizuo spends the day in remarkable peace, with nothing but Shinra’s chatter over the lunch break to interrupt the calm of his school day. It’s strange to be surrounded by quiet, odd to have nothing more dramatic than Shinra’s lovestruck sighs to accompany the single lunch Shizuo brought with him for the day; he finds himself getting lost in the quiet, staring down into his half-finished meal without responding to Shinra’s inquiries for minutes at a time until the other succeeds in getting his attention. Shinra doesn’t mind -- he’s as willing to laugh off Shizuo’s distraction as he is ready to discount everything in his life but his love as unimportant -- but Shizuo feels off-balance all day, as if he never quite woke all the way up this morning and has been wandering around in a daze ever since. His class is too calm, his lunch too peaceful; even Shinra’s constant stream of conversation is background noise, it doesn’t carry the same way Izaya’s sharp laughter would. And Shizuo keeps thinking of Izaya, his attention wandering back to the middle school as if it can cross the distance alone and leave his body to occupy a seat while he checks on the trouble he is sure Izaya is getting into without him. He worries about fights, worries about Blue Square, worries about the height of the school roof and the cold of the wind at lunchtime and the hunger that knots his stomach just before break, wonders if Izaya is warm, if Izaya is safe, if Izaya ate lunch at all without Shizuo there to look after him. His distraction increases all day, sweeping over all his attention with the advent of the afternoon, and by the time they’re released from class Shizuo barely has the focus to spare to wave a goodbye to Shinra before he bolts for the front gates of the school with the very first of the students most anxious to return home.

It’s not a large distance. Shizuo knows that as he clears the gates, as he turns down the sidewalk in the direction of the middle school instead of the route that will take him home. He had planned to walk, to pace out the distance over the handful of minutes it will take, to catch Izaya on his way home rather than trying to beat him to the front of the school. But his heart is racing, his shoulders tense on unjustified concern, and all his intention evaporates with the empty line of the sidewalk in front of him. He starts off at a fast walk, taking long strides over the first block, but he’s jogging before he’s halfway through the second, trading the breathlessness of adrenaline for that of physical exertion instead. He means to maintain a steady pace, to arrive at the middle school only a little bit winded; but his heart is pounding too fast for him to catch his breath, and he thinks he might be speeding up as he draws closer, until by the time he rounds the corner to come into sight of the middle school he can barely fill his lungs with a full breath for how frantically his heart is beating. There are more students, now, a whole flood of familiar dark coats spilling past the gates of the school as Shizuo draws closer, and for a moment Shizuo is afraid he’s missed him, that he’ll have to work through the wall of students to track Izaya down before he makes it all the way home. But then there’s movement at the gate, a student emerging past the barrier of the walls in a gap between two other clusters of middle schoolers, and Shizuo doesn’t know how he knows but he does, his attention is catching and clinging to the student’s hunched shoulders even before he’s recognized the sharp edges of Izaya’s profile and the set weight of a frown at his lips. Izaya’s stepping out onto the sidewalk, he’s starting to turn away, and Shizuo speaks without thinking, calling “ _Izaya-kun!_ ” as a shout on a lungful of air he didn’t know he had available.

Izaya turns faster than Shizuo thought possible. His entire forward momentum ceases immediately, his weight turning on a heel as his head whips around to track Shizuo’s approach. The frown at his lips evaporates, his mouth dropping open on shock to match the startled-wide of his eyes as he sees the other, and that’s all Shizuo has time to notice before his lungs abruptly protest the total lack of oxygen in them. He draws to a halt in front of Izaya, bracing his hands at his hips and tipping his head back as he gasps for air to replenish his current lack of it, his head spinning with the sudden cessation of movement.

“Senpai,” Izaya says, sounding utterly floored as Shizuo has never before heard him, and then he goes completely silent, as if he’s forgotten all his usual quips along with Shizuo’s graduation to high school. There’s nothing to fill the space between them but the gasp of Shizuo’s breathing coming hard in his chest, the rush of air in his lungs as he pants his way back to some clarity of vision; even when he takes a breath and looks down to finally meet Izaya’s gaze the other doesn’t speak at all. Izaya’s still staring at him, still with that same startled-open expression as if he’s never seen Shizuo before, or as if Shizuo has teleported himself across a distance of continents rather than sprinted over the intervening distance between the high school and the middle school. There’s something soft behind his eyes, some unfettered surprise showing in the part of his lips, and for just a moment Shizuo is reminded of that first Christmas, that moment when he lost the rhythm of his heart to the shape of Izaya’s unstudied smile behind the shadow of his hair.

There’s a thousand things Shizuo could say. _I missed you_ is the obvious one, _are you alright?_ the one more immediate to his thoughts; and then there’s the constant refrain pressing against his chest, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , like a chant that beats in time with Shizuo’s heart whenever he thinks of the other. He takes a breath, feels the rush of air over his tongue, and what he says is “You didn’t wait for me to meet you,” as harsh as if they had any such understanding before this exact moment.

Izaya’s lashes flutter, a giveaway for surprise as clear as the tremor still running against his mouth; but all he says is “Did I not?” as if he really did forget some agreement, like he’s playing along with Shizuo’s assumption without comment. “I had a lot of other things on my mind.”

Shizuo steps forward, taking the lead down the sidewalk so he can watch where he’s going instead of trapping himself with staring at the color in Izaya’s eyes, at the tension against Izaya’s lips. “You care that much about school now that you’re a third year?” he asks, feeling the words like self-made comfort on his tongue, like a countdown for the year apart already running itself towards the relief of zero. “I didn’t think anything could make you care about classes that much.”

“Of course,” Izaya says. Shizuo glances back at him for a moment, long enough to see the quirk of a smile at the corner of the other’s mouth, long enough to see the wind catch and ruffle through Izaya’s hair; then he looks back to the sidewalk, his heart skidding faster even though he’s walking even slower than usual with Izaya next to him. “I have to start thinking about my future now.”

Shizuo’s laugh comes suddenly, startled out of him as much as it is a deliberate action. Izaya is very close next to him; they’re walking near enough for the other’s dark sleeve to catch against Shizuo’s with each forward step they take. If Shizuo doesn’t look down he can imagine they’re walking back from the same school, that this is just the conclusion of a day spent in each other’s company rather than the first he’s seen of the other boy all day.

“You don’t have to worry,” Shizuo says, keeping his gaze fixed on the sidewalk rather than meeting Izaya’s gaze while his cheeks go warmer in spite of the spring-cool chill in the air. “Raijin’s not that hard to get into, you know.”

Shizuo’s jumping to conclusions. There’s still a year to go, still months of time for Izaya to decide where he wants to go, to dedicate himself to his studies if he decides to aim for a better school than the one Shizuo is attending, if he decides to abandon Shizuo to a full three years without him instead of just one. The statement is as much a question as a declaration, almost twists itself high and pleading on Shizuo’s tongue. But there’s barely a pause before Izaya laughs, “Well obviously, seeing as _you_ made it in,” with implicit agreement so clear under the words it steals Shizuo’s barely-steadied breath away again. Shizuo looks sideways, his attention pulled by the lilt of Izaya’s voice, and Izaya’s watching him, his eyes dark and mouth tense against the remnants of the laugh still in his throat.

“Brat,” Shizuo says, his voice wobbling and trying to crack in the middle as he reaches out to press his fingers into Izaya’s hair, capitulating to the temptation of catching the soft strands tangling in the spring breeze against his palm. “When are you going to learn proper respect for your senpai?”

Izaya leans sideways, his elbow catching to dig sharply against Shizuo’s side. “With you as such an excellent role model, I’m sure I’ll figure it out in a few decades.” Shizuo hisses at the bruising weight of Izaya shoving against him, but he doesn’t move away, and he can’t fight his smile back into anything but warmth glowing all across his face.

He rather likes the idea of years spent with Izaya at his side.


	23. Worry

High school turns out to be more fun than Shizuo expected it to be.

He doesn’t realize it all at once. For the first several days it’s all he can do to keep his attention on the present moment instead of wandering to fret over the subject of Izaya’s actions, or worse to daydream over the color of his hair; lunches are to be waited through more than enjoyed, classwork only a minimal distraction for the constant focus of his thoughts. But after that first day Izaya is always waiting at the front gates of the middle school when Shizuo arrives, his shoulders tipped back against the wall and his smile bright enough for Shizuo to recognize from a block away, and as days go by without major incident from that front Shizuo finds his stress about it during the rest of the daytime hours eases as well. He has studying to focus on, and Shinra to spend lunches with, and then halfway through the second week Shizuo partners up with one of the other students in his class for an assignment and finds friendship to be a simple matter of exchanging names and a handshake instead of navigating the constant tension that crackles in the air when Izaya’s around. Kadota is nice, easy to talk to and calm in a way that Shizuo finds reassuring, and he gets along as easily with Shinra as with everyone else, in spite of the other’s less-than-typical personality. With two people to sit with lunches become fun, or at least something Shizuo can look forward to through the morning before beginning on the daily countdown to the end of class and the walk home with Izaya that lasts longer and longer with each day that goes by; it’s pleasant to listen to the conversation between the other two, easy to let the sound of their voices wash over him as he works through the lunch his mother made for him the night before.

“I want to meet this Celty,” Kadota is saying today, leaning back with his shoulders against the links of the fence as he watches Shinra. Shinra’s been rambling as he does whenever given half a chance, extolling Celty’s virtues with Kadota’s patience and Shizuo’s full mouth to let him continue uninterrupted for several minutes. “She sounds cool.”

“She _is_ cool,” Shinra agrees immediately, barely giving Kadota time to finish his sentence before he’s confirming the sentiment. “Don’t think I’m going to let you steal her away from me, though, Kadota-kun!”

“I’m not planning on trying,” Kadota tells him. “It sounds like you two have something special, I wouldn’t try to get in the way of that.”

“Good,” Shinra says, sounding more chipper than relieved, as if the threat of his last statement was a joke and not the sincerity Shizuo knows it to be. “As long as we understand each other!” Then he turns to Shizuo, his attention veering sideways with barely a breath of hesitation, and says, “She says she wants to meet you too, Shizuo. And Orihara-kun.”

Shizuo blinks. “Oh.” It’s a little weird to hear that someone is interested in him without the assumed construct of a fight around it; Shizuo’s shoulders start to tense in expectation of the violence that has faded from his life with his advent of the bleached-pale hair he’s just now starting to recognize in his own reflection. “Sure. I’ll bring him next weekend, we can all hang out downtown or something.”

“Who’s Orihara-kun?” Kadota asks with vaguely curiosity.

Shizuo opens his mouth to reply with -- something, he doesn’t even know what -- but Shinra beats him to it, talking with the rapidfire speech that is reminiscent of the pace of Izaya’s without any of the lilting tone that always sets Shizuo’s blood to fire in his veins. “He’s Shizuo’s best friend!”

Shizuo doesn’t know why he blushes. Shinra’s statement is patently true, after all; he’s hardly likely to gain traction on any kind of a denial, even if he wanted to make the attempt. But something about the casual declaration hunches embarrassment into his shoulders, burns with the heat of self-consciousness across his cheeks, and when Kadota says “Really?” all Shizuo can manage is an “Mm” that sounds as much like embarrassment as agreement.

“They’ve only known each other for a few years,” Shinra continues, with all the self-assurance of a man whose primary relationship has lasted for over a decade already. “But they were joined at the hip in middle school. It’s still a little weird to see Shizuo on his own here at Raijin, I keep expecting Orihara-kun to turn up with him.”

“That’s next year,” Shizuo says down to his lunch, not lifting his head to see the way Shinra is blinking at him or to meet the calm consideration he can feel Kadota offering. “You’ll both get to see as much of him as you want when he graduates.”

“Is he coming here too?” Shinra asks, and then fast, before Shizuo has a chance to answer: “I thought he would. He must be lonely without you.”

“He’s fine,” Shizuo says, more from wishing it to be true than any real assurance of honesty in the words. “He’ll be getting into knifefights with yakuza whether I’m there or not.”

“Woah,” Kadota says. “And he’s in middle school?”

“Yeah.” Shizuo takes a bite of his lunch, chews and swallows with deliberate slowness to buy himself time to compose his expression. When he looks up he feels almost calm, like the burn across his cheeks has been swept away by the chill bite of the air still clinging to the last cool of winter. “I dunno. I guess maybe not knifefights. It’s not like he has a weapon or anything.”

“He might,” Shinra says brightly, and Kadota and Shizuo both turn to look at him as one. Shinra looks from one to the other, his eyes wide and innocent behind his glasses and his mouth curving on the bright of that everpresent smile that holds to his expression regardless of the subject at hand. “I’m sure he has contacts that could get him something if he wanted it. Maybe he even has a gun!”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo growls. “No, he does _not_ have a _gun_ , don’t be ridiculous.”

Shinra shrugs, still smiling as he reaches for a bite from his own lunch without looking. “I’m just observing the possibility!” he says, and then, without so much as a pause for breath before the subject change: “He must really miss you,” without glancing up to see the way Shizuo’s entire expression goes blank in the most transparent attempt at self-preservation he’s ever attempted. “He always looks so lost when you’re not around.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence. Shizuo almost imagines he can hear each second ticking past to weight Shinra’s words with more meaning than was originally intended; but he can’t speak for a moment, can’t find voice enough to trust with coherency or composure. Kadota glances at him, looks away and back down to the distraction of his lunch; but still Shizuo can’t find his breath again, can’t figure out something reasonably off-hand to offer in response to this.

“He’ll be fine,” he manages, finally, sounding strained and weird and breathy in a way that makes his cheeks burn hot with the absolute giveaway of the sound in his throat. “It’s only a year.”

“That’s true,” Shinra says, as quick to give over this point as he was to bring it up. “And he’ll be at school the whole time. How much trouble can he get into at middle school?”

 _Enough_ , Shizuo wants to say, the certainty of the word rooted in two years of experience and a bone-deep knowledge that Izaya is the kind of person who can find trouble anywhere he looks for it. For a moment Shizuo wishes he was back at middle school, in the halls so familiar they have become boring, in the classes filled with information he’s already learned; but at least Izaya wouldn’t be alone, at least Shizuo would know the other is okay more than once a day after classes let out.

“It’ll be fine.”

It’s not Shinra speaking. Kadota has been so quiet that Shizuo nearly forgot he was there, has all but dismissed the whole of his surroundings for the rising tension of stress along his spine. When he looks over the other boy is taking a bite of his lunch, his head ducked as if the food in front of him holds far more interest for him than whatever Shizuo’s reaction to his statement is. It reminds Shizuo of Kasuka, just for a moment of time; but then Kadota swallows, and looks up, and there’s a focus in his eyes that Shizuo has never seen in Kasuka’s for any subject.

“I don’t know Orihara-kun,” Kadota says, looking at Shizuo so the words come out for him rather than a general statement. “So I guess I could be wrong. But I think everything’ll be alright.” He shrugs, an easy raise of one shoulder like he’s giving an unvoiced demurral for his opinion. “Things usually do turn out okay, in the end.”

Shizuo takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says, and he only intended it to be polite agreement but the word comes out more sincere than he expected it to, like his voice is responding to Kadota’s reassurance in advance of his thoughts. When he blinks the frantic edge of his worry eases, fading out of the irrational panic that had gripped him for a moment with a force like that of the anger that almost never seizes him, anymore. “It’ll be okay.”

Shizuo’s not sure he quite believes the words; he _does_ know Izaya, after all, and that’s stress enough to make anyone paranoid. But Kadota nods, and Shinra swings the conversation back around to arranging a meeting with Celty, and when Shizuo takes another bite of his lunch he doesn’t even notice how relaxed his shoulders are.


	24. Soft

The message comes in during the last half-hour of class.

Shizuo doesn’t read it. He doesn’t even know it’s there; his cell phone is never turned on to ring out loud, and he shuts off the vibration feature when he gets to school in the morning to avoid the faint hum of noise that comes with an incoming call. It’s better to keep his mind on class, anyway, better to avoid the distraction that comes with knowing there’s a message waiting for him; so he focuses on class, and finishes the test they’re meant to be taking as the last task of the day, and doesn’t see the notification light on his phone until he’s stepping into his shoes in the entryway and turning to make his way to the front gate of the school. He’s thinking about Izaya, as he always is, looking forward over the next few minutes of walking to seeing the other boy in front of the gates of the middle school; and then he sees the flashing red at the corner of his phone, and the notification of a missed message from _Izaya-kun_ , and Shizuo nearly drops his phone entirely in the first surge of adrenaline.

He’s moving towards the gate without pausing, before he’s even had a chance to read the message; in the span of time it takes him to get the text open he’s run through five different scenarios in his head, is ready to break into a run as soon as he finds out where he needs to be. But there’s no plea for help on the screen in front of him, no directions or address of one of the shadier buildings downtown; just one word, _Wait_ clear on his screen and absent any additional context for Shizuo to parse. Shizuo frowns at it, trying to figure out the meaning with just the single command to go on, but there’s no traction to be gained on unknown context or any kind of inside joke he can recall. He’s still turning over possibilities when he steps clear of the front gate, still frowning at the phone as he opens his keyboard to demand more information; and then there’s a touch at his shoulder, the weight of something cold against his coat, and Shizuo jerks around in instinctive reaction before he has time to parse what’s touching him.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he starts, frustration coming easy on the heels of his concern; and then he sees a bright smile, and dark eyes, and all the tension drains out of him all at once even before Izaya has said anything. “ _Izaya-kun._ ”

Izaya’s mouth tugs wider, his head tipping to the side to cast his eyes into shadows. “Hey there,” he purrs. “Miss me?”

 _Yes_ , Shizuo thinks. _I’m always missing you_. “What are you doing here?” he demands. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Izaya huffs a tiny, unvoiced laugh. “We had a half day,” he announces. He has a can of soda in his hand; when he tosses it up to catch it again Shizuo realizes what it was that was on his shoulder for a moment, the weight of the can resting against him in the moment before he turned and left it to topple into Izaya’s waiting hands. “I thought I’d come to meet you for once.”

Shizuo looks at the angle of Izaya’s fingers bracing at the can, blinks at the dark of the coat around his shoulders familiar from Christmas rather than from middle school. The soft of the fur at the hood is catching against his hair, pressing close against the back of his neck to pin windswept dark against pale skin. “You ditched class.”

Izaya laughs, the sound liquid with heat on his tongue. “Maybe.” His wrist angles, his arm shifts, and the can flies towards Shizuo’s face, pushed off the tips of Izaya’s fingers a heartbeat before Izaya tells him to “Catch.”

Shizuo lifts his hand and catches the weight of the aluminum against his palm without looking away from Izaya’s smirk. “You shouldn’t ditch,” he tells him, knowing even as he gives the words voice that they’re a useless attempt. The soda can is pressurized under his touch, promising a spray of sugary liquid if he’s careless about opening it; when he cracks the lid it’s only by a half-inch, just enough to let the hiss of bubbles spill past the opening and onto the sidewalk rather than over his fingers. It takes a few seconds before the pressure has decreased enough for him to tilt the can back to upright and open it the rest of the way; the soda is still cold when he takes a swallow, the can chill with condensation against the warmth in the air. “Especially as a third-year.”

Izaya shrugs away this concern. “I’m going to pass my exams,” he says, pushing himself up to perch at the edge of the planter alongside the school gates. When he looks at Shizuo his eyes are half-lidded to dark, his lashes turning the color of his gaze into an invitation. “I don’t see why the rest of it matters, senpai.”

“School is important,” Shizuo says, the statement coming easy and unthinking as he looks at the angle of Izaya’s wrist bracing him at the lip of the planter. He takes a step closer, off the main pathway of the sidewalk and the spill of students emerging from the school gates, and leans back alongside Izaya with as much nonchalance as he can manage. Their elbows are close enough to touch, if Shizuo shifted his weight at all; he can smell that odd spiciness in the air again, the suggestion of scent that always hovers in Izaya’s vicinity and flickers warmth into Shizuo’s blood. “It’s not just about exams.”

“Isn’t it?” Izaya asks. Shizuo shifts the can of soda from one hand to the other, aware as he does so of the way his sleeve catches against Izaya’s braced-out arm as he brings soda-sticky fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. “I thought the whole point of middle school was to get accepted into a good high school.”

“It is,” Shizuo admits. There’s pressure against his chest, the threat of words he’s not quite sure he wants to say; he takes another drink of the soda in his hand, tries to remember how to swallow with his heart pounding on the anxious desire for reassurance. It feels awkward, a strange struggle with himself for a perfectly ordinary action, but Izaya doesn’t comment, and adrenaline is spilling up Shizuo’s throat and over his tongue with honesty he’s not yet sure he wants to offer. “Raijin’s not that good of a school, though.” There’s a beat of silence, a chance for Izaya to respond that he doesn’t take; Shizuo glances at him, just for a moment, just long enough to see the steady attention in the other’s gaze before he turns his head and clears his throat to roughness. “You could probably get in somewhere better if you tried.”

There’s another pause. Shizuo feels like it’s forever, with the thud of his heart going too-fast in his chest to parcel out the seconds; but when Izaya offers “Come on, senpai” it’s easy, as casual as if they’re having an utterly everyday conversation instead of discussing Izaya’s future for the next three years. “As if I could leave you to your reign of terror without coming to see at least some of it.”

Shizuo glances sideways again, his head turning too quickly for him to decide whether he wants to offer the giveaway of the movement or not. Izaya is watching him, his gaze unwavering on Shizuo’s face; he’s still facing the street, his arms locked out to brace him in place where he sits, but the corner of his mouth is turned up, his lips curving on a smile like he’s trying to hold back the soft of the expression and not quite succeeding. It makes Shizuo’s heart skid, warms all his body like he’s glowing into pure sunlight, and for a moment he’s smiling, helpless to the force of the reassurance that hits him before he can muster a frown to go with the rough edge of his voice and cover the tremor of relief in his throat. “It’s not like that,” he tells Izaya, shoving against the other’s leg with a force that has no sincerity at all behind it and just makes Izaya grin the wider. “I hardly ever get into fights, now.”

“How lucky for everyone,” Izaya drawls. “I told you the hair was a good idea.” He lifts his hand from the edge of the wall and reaches out to fit his fingers into Shizuo’s hair; Shizuo flinches sideways, his whole body tensing on the electricity that comes with Izaya’s touch, but Izaya just tightens his fingers to make a fist of his hair rather than letting Shizuo break free. He’s watching his hand instead of Shizuo’s face, frowning at the pale of the bleached-out strands so he doesn’t see the way Shizuo is looking at him, doesn’t see the brief involuntary flicker of the other’s attention down to the tension at Izaya’s lips.

“The roots are growing out,” Izaya declares, his thumb pressing close against Shizuo’s scalp. “You should bleach it again this weekend.”

“ _You_ should,” Shizuo growls, a weak comeback made weaker by the way his throat is thrumming on heat and the shivering fear of meeting rejection for this offer. He reaches up for Izaya’s wrist, tightens his fingers close around the heat radiating off bruise-delicate skin; when he pulls the other’s hold free he can feel the tendons of Izaya’s wrist shifting under his thumb, can feel the fragility of brittle bone pressing hard against his palm. “It’s a pain to keep up with it and it was your idea in the first place, you should at least help me do some of the work.”

“You could always cut it off instead.” Izaya pushes hard against Shizuo’s hold until Shizuo has to let him go or run the risk of accidental bruises; as soon as his wrist is free he’s reaching out across Shizuo’s body, casually pressing close against the other as he stretches for the can of soda in Shizuo’s far hand. “Just get a buzzcut if you hate it so much.”

Shizuo grabs at Izaya’s shoulder, half to hold him away from his soda and half to keep him where he is, to pull him closer, to press him hard against the blue of Shizuo’s uniform coat. “I never said that,” he protests. “I’m not going to cut all my hair off.”

Izaya’s laugh is twice as warm from this close up. “I never figured you to be vain about your looks, Shizuo-senpai. It seems odd for a monster to care that much about what he looks like.”

“That again,” Shizuo sighs, mock resignation on his tongue as his heart tries to race itself to some unseen finish line inside his chest. “You are never going to stop being a brat, are you?” Izaya just laughs again, the sound purring against the front of Shizuo’s jacket, and Shizuo can’t find the self-restraint to hold back the smile that spreads across his face in answer.

The collar of Izaya’s coat is soft under his fingers.


	25. Glimpse

Shinra is crying when Shizuo comes back into the living room.

This is less shocking than it ought to be. If it were Kadota Shizuo would be concerned; if it were Izaya he would be panicked. But Shinra lying on the floor wailing about his eternal heartbreak to the ceiling is a relatively ordinary occurrence, even if the handful of beers Kadota brought with him to their informal Christmas party have caused him to attain an extra level of shrillness that makes Shizuo flinch as he steps back through the doorway. Kadota is leaning towards Shinra’s sprawl across the floor, offering what awkward comfort a shoulder pat can provide to the ongoing romantic troubles of over a decade, but it’s Izaya and the bright flash of amusement at his mouth that catches and holds Shizuo’s attention.

“What did you do this time?” Shizuo asks, aiming the words at Izaya instead of to the incoherent mess Shinra is making of himself on the floor.

“Nothing,” Izaya says, keeping his attention on Shinra as Shizuo sits against the edge of the kotatsu next to him and slides his feet into the warmth. Kadota’s sitting crosslegged next to Shinra, apparently comfortable enough in the ambient temperature of the room to give up the crowded footspace under the kotatsu; there’s just the angle of Izaya’s legs spread out into the space to interrupt Shizuo’s movement, the resistance of the other’s ankles against his feet tingling familiar tension against Shizuo’s spine like a touch dragging across his skin. “You know how Shinra gets about Celty.” He lifts the can in his hand to his lips, catching the edge of the aluminum against his mouth; Shizuo watches Izaya’s lips fit to the metallic shine, sees the press of damp catch and cling to the surface, and it’s just as the other’s throat works on a swallow that Shizuo realizes it’s his own can in Izaya’s hold.

“Don’t be a pest,” he says, kicking against Izaya’s ankle more for the show of irritation than the fact of it. “And that’s _mine_ , get your own.” Izaya lowers the can from his mouth and cuts a glance sideways through his lashes at Shizuo; Shizuo can feel a shiver of adrenaline purr up his spine, threatening his cheeks with a flush before he looks down and reaches out to pull the can free of Izaya’s hold.

“I don’t want a second one all to myself,” Izaya protests, his fingers tightening under Shizuo’s hold instead of pulling away. “I just wanted a sip of yours.”

“You’ve had half of it yourself already.” Shizuo pulls hard, dragging the can free of Izaya’s hold and trying very hard to not flex his fingers against the afterimage-heat of Izaya’s skin against his.

“You weren’t drinking it.” Izaya’s voice is mocking, swinging high and teasing at the edges; he’s still looking at Shizuo through his lashes, still smiling that lopsided smile that always makes Shizuo’s heart feel like it’s trying to rattle itself free of the cage of his body. Shizuo doesn’t dare keep looking at the shadow of Izaya’s eyes behind his lashes, at the curve of Izaya’s lips printed with the damp from the edge of his drink; he lifts the can instead, tipping his head back to hide the embarrassed flush across his cheeks and to buy himself a moment of composure while he downs the rest of the beer. It’s bitter on his tongue, catching sour at the back of his mouth in a way that makes him grimace; but the edge of the can is warm, Shizuo can almost imagine the suggestion of licorice printed there by Izaya’s lips at the metal. The thought does nothing to offer him composure; by the time he sets the empty can back down on the kotatsu it’s hard even to catch his breath for how rapidly his pulse is going.

“Impressive,” Izaya drawls, reaching out to flick the can over onto its side. “We’ll make an alcoholic of you yet, senpai.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps, his voice trying to break in his throat. “It’s one beer.”

“You’re looking awfully flushed,” Izaya tells him, and Shizuo can feel heat flare blistering under his skin like it’s answering the call of Izaya’s voice. Izaya lifts his fingers from the table, stretches out across the gap between them, and then his touch is brushing against Shizuo’s face, his fingertips dragging gentle just across the other’s skin. “And you feel warm.”

“Brat,” Shizuo manages, the word familiar enough to topple off his lips even as his heart skids out in his chest. He reaches up to grab at Izaya’s wrist and tug that near-painful electricity of contact away from his cheek, though he’s not sure how much good it’s doing for his flush. “You’ve had as much as I have, do _you_ feel drunk?” His skin is burning, his whole body feels like it’s glowing; but Izaya’s hand is like ice in his, his fingers so cold even Shizuo’s self-consciousness gives way to concern as he looks away from the dark focus of Izaya’s eyes to the angle of his hands. “You’re _freezing_ , it’s no wonder I feel warm.”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, “it’s winter, it’s supposed to be cold” but Shizuo is barely listening to him anymore; he’s tangled around the angle of Izaya’s fingers in his hold, his attention caught and held by the unresisting tension of the other’s hand in his. Izaya’s skin is chilled as if with ice, his fingers stiff under Shizuo’s touch; but he’s not snatching his hand away, and Shizuo can see color rising over the pale tracery of veins in the other’s fingers the longer he maintains his hold. His hand flexes, tightening on some instinct to hold closer, and Izaya’s fingers shift against each other as Shizuo’s thumb slides over the delicate line of bone just under skin. It’s like holding blown glass, like pressing his fingers carefully around something fragile enough to give way at a breath; and then Shizuo realizes what he’s doing, has the thought _I’m holding his hand_ , and drops his grip as suddenly as if the chill of Izaya’s skin is an open flame.

“You’ve been inside for hours,” he says, speaking to the slack curl of Izaya’s fingers against the kotatsu instead of looking up to meet his gaze, and then he lifts his head and pulls his attention to the other two in the room through sheer force of will and desperate need for another conversational topic while his mind reels over the shape of Izaya’s hand in his, the texture of Izaya’s skin against his, the submissive give of Izaya’s fingers to his own. Shizuo wonders if he could have kept holding on, wonders how long Izaya would have let him continue before sliding his hand away. He wishes he hadn’t let go. “Calm down, Shinra.”

Shinra’s wailing cuts off in the span of one word and the next. “You don’t understand,” he says, pushing himself to sit up and looking back to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “It’s just _wrong_ , to be separated from the one you love at Christmas.”

Shizuo’s whole body flashes hot, as if this statement was aimed directly at him instead of a general commentary; then Izaya laughs, and Shizuo finds the composure to sigh through put-upon resignation over the too-fast thud of his heart as Kadota offers “Is it?” with good-natured tolerance.

“It is.” Shizuo can hear Shinra’s tone dropping off the edge of misery and into the self-centered happiness he can always find in his own imagination. “I know you aren’t lucky enough to have Celty in your lives the way I have her in mine, but love is a wonderful thing!”

“You always make it seem very appealing,” Izaya laughs. When Shizuo glances at him he has his head propped on the support of one hand and a smile at the corner of his mouth as he watches Shinra.

“Yes,” Shinra agrees. “I just wish I could spend the holiday with the person I love.”

“It’s good to know you value our company,” Kadota deadpans.

“What?” Shinra sounds legitimately confused and looks more so as he reels in his attention from his fantasy-dazed stare at the ceiling to blink around the room at them. “I wouldn’t begrudge any of you leaving to spend time with the one you love.”

“Sorry,” Kadota offers. “Nothing to report on that front, though I’ll be sure to tell you first.”

Shizuo knows where this is going. He can feel his shoulders tensing on stress at what is to come, can feel the desperate need for a lie making his tongue clumsy and awkward in his mouth. But he’s watching Kadota, and he’s listening for Shinra, and he’s not ready at all for the source of the question when it comes.

“What about Shizuo-senpai?”

Shizuo looks back to Izaya, his awareness of the rest of the room giving way at once. Izaya’s gazing at him again, his head tipped to the side and his mouth dragging on a smirk that doesn’t touch his eyes at all. When he speaks his voice is sharp, carrying an unstated threat Shizuo can’t make sense of. “Haven’t you managed to find yourself a girlfriend yet?”

Shizuo feels faintly dizzy, wonders if it’s the beer finally affecting him after an hour of nothing at all. “What?”

“A girlfriend.” Izaya’s pulling the word long in his throat; it would sound like teasing if it weren’t for the attention in his eyes and the way he looks away as Shizuo stares at him, the way he reaches out to push against the empty can on the table rather than meet the other’s gaze. “Don’t you have one?”

There’s a flicker of anger in Shizuo’s chest, the flutter of irritation formed on confusion and uncertainty and embarrassment all wrapped around something too small for him to make sense of, something so fragile he can’t gain traction on it with the distraction of the can glinting light at his face. “Of course I don’t,” he says, honesty coming harsher than he intended in his throat, and he reaches out to close his fingers hard on the can and stop the flash of the reflection into his eyes. The aluminum crumples, the metal giving way to his careless grip; Shizuo looks back at it, frowning at the give of the can while his heart pounds itself into something almost like suspicion, while hope and jealousy prickle equal measures of electricity out across his skin. “Why, do _you_ have one?”

There’s a pause. Shizuo’s heart won’t stop pounding in his chest; it’s hard to breathe, hard to fit the basic motions of existence around the tension straining impossibly taut over the silence of Izaya’s not-answer. He’s desperate for the reply, terrified to hear it, bracing with all his strength against the shock of whatever Izaya will say in response. Maybe it was too forward of a question, maybe it finally gave his own feelings away; but it was Izaya who asked him first, Izaya who pushed for a confession Shizuo can’t give, who insisted on the existence of a girlfriend Shizuo doesn’t have and doesn’t want. Maybe Izaya is waiting for more, maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s startled into silence by the accidental implication of Shizuo’s strained tone; and finally Shizuo can’t take the tension anymore, and he lifts his gaze from the table to meet Izaya’s stare.

Izaya is watching him. There’s a smile at his lips, the outline of what Shizuo thinks was a laugh from his first taunting question; but his eyes are endlessly dark and softer than Shizuo has ever seen them, his lashes heavy over his gaze to weight it to something layered over with meaning, until his expression looks more pleading than anything else. It’s as if he’s waiting for Shizuo to say something, waiting for Shizuo to take some action; Shizuo takes a breath, fills his lungs with the air to speak, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say but he knows it will be a relief, can feel the satisfaction of finally saying _something_ threatening the back of his tongue even as he opens his mouth. And then Izaya blinks, and the soft in his eyes vanishes to the unreadable shadows that are usually there, and he says “Come on, Shizuo-senpai,” with his voice so bright on repressed laughter it cuts off Shizuo’s unvoiced confession even before Izaya kicks his heel bruise-hard against the other’s thigh. “I could never choose just one human to love more than the others, that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of them.”

There’s still something there. Shizuo can see it in the shift of Izaya’s lashes when he blinks, can read it from the tension of his wrists bracing back against the floor as he tips his weight back. The statement feels like a dare, like a taunt meant to draw Shizuo’s frustration more than offered in sincerity, and Shizuo wants to accept, wants to throw himself head-first into whatever Izaya is daring him to do just to see what will happen. But:

“Or to the one, either,” Kadota says, the sound of his voice reminding Shizuo abruptly of the other people in the room, and when Shinra chirps a laugh Izaya looks away from Shizuo’s gaze, turning his head to grin at the other two with as much careless ease as if he really is perfectly comfortable, as if the unanswered question hanging in the space between he and Shizuo isn’t there at all. It’s almost convincing, would be enough to persuade Shizuo if he were someone else, if he didn’t have years of experience to go on; but he knows better than to listen to Izaya’s voice or look at Izaya’s smile for signs of strain, knows better than to believe the appearance of calm amusement the other is so ready to adopt. The giveaway is in Izaya’s wrists, in the flex of his fingers against the floor and the sharp angle of his arm as he holds himself up; if Shizuo traces it up he can even see the tension hunching against the other’s shoulders, rumpling his collar up close against the dark soft of his hair as he watches Shinra push himself to seated to resume his previous failed attempt at coherency.

Izaya doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t give Shizuo another chance to pick apart the strange softness behind his gaze. It doesn’t make a difference. Shizuo’s heart is already beating doubletime just on the possibility of reciprocation he thinks he might have glimpsed behind the saturated crimson of Izaya’s eyes.


	26. Lingering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains (solo) sexual content involving a character under the age of eighteen. Please feel free to skip this chapter if you would prefer to avoid such.

“Are you sure?” Shizuo asks for the third time since he followed Izaya to the entryway, while the other works through the process of getting himself wrapped back up to Shizuo’s satisfaction before braving the walk back to his house. “I don’t mind.”

“Stop fretting,” Izaya tells him without looking up from putting his shoes on. “You let Dotachin and Shinra leave without fussing over them, do you really think I’m less capable of taking care of myself than they are?”

“It’s not about that,” Shizuo tells him. “It’s cold out there.”

Izaya huffs a laugh as he tugs his second shoe on with a quick pull. “Yes,” he agrees. “What exactly do you think you walking me back will do against the cold?” He looks up through his hair and catches Shizuo’s gaze for a moment of smirking amusement. “Are you just afraid I’m going to collapse on the way home and freeze to death where I fall?”

“No,” Shizuo growls, although the idea is less ridiculous in his head than Izaya probably intends it to sound. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and lifts a hand towards Shizuo. Shizuo takes it without thinking, curling his fingers around the warmth of Izaya’s with the gentle care that is becoming second nature to him now, and Izaya’s grip closes tight around his wrist just before the other drags at the support of Shizuo’s arm to pull himself to his feet. Shizuo stumbles at the unexpected force, has to step forward to catch his balance, and Izaya is right there in front of him, not leaning back at all as Shizuo tips forward in an effort to steady himself. Their foreheads almost touch, their hair almost tangles, and then Shizuo catches himself and pulls back in a rush, his heart racing at the too-close contact before his mind has even decided what he wants to do.

Izaya’s mouth tightens at the corner, his lips dragging up into a smirk as Shizuo watches. “I told you you had too much to drink,” he says, purring the words until they sound more like an invitation than mockery, and then he’s letting Shizuo’s wrist go and sliding his hand free before Shizuo can think to stop him, turning as easily towards the door as if he doesn’t feel the crackling electricity trying to fix Shizuo unmoving where he stands. “If you can’t even stand up straight you’re totally useless to me as an escort. I’d just have to walk you back again as soon as we got to my house.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Shizuo snaps, stepping forward to follow Izaya to the door and catch the edge of it as Izaya pulls it open to let the chill of the air outside spill into the house. “You had as much as I did.”

“Maybe I just hold my alcohol better,” Izaya suggests, flashing his teeth into a smile that says he knows how ridiculous this claim is even before Shizuo rolls his eyes by way of answer. “Don’t worry, Shizuo-senpai.” He moves forward, drawing his hand free of the door so he can step out into the dim chill of the evening air. “I’ll text you if I need rescue.”

“Let me know when you’re home,” Shizuo tells him as Izaya draws the hood of his coat up over his dark hair and pauses to look back. His cheeks are still flushed with lingering warmth, his mouth still curving on a smile; for a moment Shizuo’s whole body flickers with electricity, his blood flaring hot at the dark of Izaya’s eyes and the smooth curve of his throat down into the collar of his shirt. His attention flickers down, landing to tangle helplessly at the curve of Izaya’s mouth, and for a heartbeat of time the lateness of the hour and the faint suggestion of intoxication in his veins whisper impulse along his spine, breathe the possibility of stepping closer, of leaning in, of catching the warm damp of Izaya’s mouth against his to see if the other’s lips carry the same electric charge his gaze sometimes seems to.

“Yes, senpai,” Izaya drawls, and Shizuo blinks hard to snap himself out of his momentary distraction. Izaya is grinning at him, his smile as taunting as it is amused; Shizuo has to struggle to backtrack the last few seconds of speech in his throat just to remember what it is Izaya is even teasing him about. He’s only just pieced it together when Izaya shifts, half-turning towards the path to the street without looking away from Shizuo. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo manages, feeling his attempt at casual speech stick into incoherence in his throat. “Merry Christmas.” Izaya’s lashes dip, his smile slips wider; and then he lifts his hand in a wave and is turning away for the front gate without waiting for Shizuo to remember himself enough to manage a wave of response. Shizuo stands in the doorway watching Izaya pull the gate open and step out onto the sidewalk, but Izaya only looks back once, just for a glance over his shoulder too quick for Shizuo to read before he’s moving away down the sidewalk and out of sight; and then there’s just the cold dark of the night and the fire in Shizuo’s own veins to keep him company. Shizuo turns away from the street, retreating out of the entryway as he pushes the door shut to stop the loss of the interior warmth to the chill of the outside; and then he takes a breath, and takes a step forward, and makes for the stairs that lead to the second floor and his bedroom.

There’s a relief in shutting the door behind him, an easing of tension that comes with the click of the latch promising him freedom from anyone’s observation for at least a few minutes. With the door shut Shizuo can lean against the weight of the support, can tip his head against the wall at his back and shut his eyes to the mundane reality of his surroundings while his thoughts reel back over the last few hours and his heart skips to an even faster pace in his chest than it already had. Shizuo is exhausted, his whole body as shaky-tired as if he had been running instead of sitting still with the strain of affection running through him with breathless force every time Izaya laughed or moved or spoke. There’s a bruise at his hip, he thinks, the afterimage left of one of Izaya’s kicks so minimal in comparison with Shizuo’s old self-inflicted injuries that it doesn’t even feel like pain as much as heat laid under his skin, like a brand Izaya’s touch left all unthinking for the effect the contact would have. Shizuo can taste the bitter edge of beer at the back of his tongue, can see the cut of Izaya’s smile behind his shut eyes; even in the silence and solitude of the present moment his heart refuses to slow, is skidding out against the too-clear memory of Izaya’s attention on him, of the steady focus of the other’s stare as if to carry a confession Shizuo can barely let himself hope for, much less believe. But Izaya had said no, had rejected the possibility of a girlfriend as thoroughly as Shizuo had, and Shizuo hadn’t really thought Izaya could have a girlfriend without him knowing about it but the direct rejection comes weighted with possibility, whispers of the possibility of a boyfriend if a girl is out of the question, whispers the possibility of Shizuo--

Shizuo’s heart slips on a beat. His eyes are still shut, his shoulders still close against the support of his closed bedroom door; but for a moment he’s back in the doorway below, for a moment he’s reliving the farewell in the entryway and playing it out to a different conclusion. What if Izaya had lifted his head to flash that teasing smile and Shizuo had stepped in closer, what if Shizuo had reached out to catch the other’s hair against his hands and ducked his head to press a kiss to the other’s mouth? Izaya’s lips would be warm, Shizuo is sure, would carry the taste of the mandarins he was eating or maybe some trace of that odd smell that clings so close to his hair, to his skin, to every part of him that Shizuo so wants, that Shizuo can feel himself aching for every time he so much as considers the possibility. He could have kissed him there, in the doorway, could have tangled his fingers into the soft of Izaya’s hair and held him still against the wintery bite of the air outside; or earlier, even, Shizuo can imagine it now, can see himself leaning over the kotatsu to answer that unreadable question in Izaya’s eyes with the weight of his mouth at the other’s lips. It’s an impossible idea even in fantasy -- Kadota and Shinra were still there, and Shizuo can hardly imagine taking such sudden action with an audience to track his moves -- but in the space of his imagination it’s easy to undo their presence, to leave himself and Izaya alone with just the warmth of the room and the dark focus of Izaya’s eyes on Shizuo as he leans in closer. Shizuo can almost feel the soft of Izaya’s smile going slack against his lips, can almost taste that citrus bite on the other’s skin; and then Izaya of his imagination leans in closer, turns his head and opens his mouth to let Shizuo taste the warm damp past his lips, and Shizuo realizes abruptly that he’s hard, that he’s been standing in his bedroom thinking about kissing his best friend and that all the blood in his body is thrumming itself to the tension of want under his skin.

Shizuo opens his eyes. His room is familiar, the clutter of books and papers on the desk in the corner as easy to dismiss as the jacket tossed over the back of a chair and the half-open drawer of his dresser where he went searching for a different shirt before Izaya’s arrival. Everything is familiar, ordinary, easy; except that the bed looks like a promise, the rumple of the sheets looks like an unvoiced suggestion of relief, and when Shizuo reaches behind him it’s to turn the lock at his door with the careful deliberation of intent.

He doesn’t take his clothes off. That carries too much thought behind it, too much patient consideration of what he’s about to do, and besides the heat in his veins is swelling to a roar, the shuddering force of it enough to drown out his better sense as surely as his sometime-anger overwhelms his rationality. He just stumbles forward to the edge of the unmade bed, tosses himself down over the sheets without even trying to pull them back, and when he rolls over onto his back he’s reaching to unfasten the fly of his jeans without hesitating over the movement. He’s committed to this now, was committed as soon as he shut the front door to leave himself alone with his memories of Izaya close alongside him, of Izaya watching him, of Izaya reaching out to bump his wrist carelessly at Shizuo’s skin. Shizuo can still smell Izaya in the air, as if the continued effect of the other’s presence has slipped into his clothes and pressed itself skin-close to the warmth of Shizuo’s body, has laid itself alongside his own existence as if with the intent to share the same space as he. It makes his heart race, makes his breathing skip faster in his throat, and when he pushes his clothes open and closes his fingers around himself he finds the sensation just catches on the thrum of want in his chest, just shudders through his body like he’s grounding himself against the electrical static of Izaya’s presence still tangible in the air.

He doesn’t think about anything at first, at least not coherently. His hand is moving, falling into a familiar rhythm of movement he doesn’t have to put any true conscious thought into; it’s instinctive, reflexive, easy enough to do almost completely unthought as he sometimes does late at night when he can’t find sleep without the simple assistance of physical relief. But this time the rise of warmth in his veins runs up against the wandering track of his thoughts, the flushing pleasure of his grip dragging over himself meeting and matching his half-formed thought of kissing Izaya over the edge of the kotatsu, or up against the support of the front door. He can smell Izaya in the air, can almost imagine Izaya is here, with him, now, that if he reached out a hand he could touch the other’s face, could fit his fingers to the back of his neck to brace them in place, Izaya or Shizuo himself he doesn’t know which. Shizuo tips his knees wider, drags his hand up over himself, and his imagination catches to the movement, suggests Izaya’s knees pressing close against Shizuo’s, suggests the shadow of the other boy leaning in as his hand presses to Shizuo’s shirt, as his touch slides down to -- and Shizuo’s whole body is flaring hot, now, his spine tensing against the shudder of pleasure that hits him like a physical force.

He can see it clearly, can almost convince himself he could open his eyes to see Izaya straddling his knees, his head tipped down to watch the deliberate stroke of his hand or lifted, maybe, maybe with the dark knowledge behind his eyes fixed on the pant of Shizuo’s breathing coming hard at his lips as Izaya’s fingers work over him. It’s easy to imagine, easy to picture the way Izaya’s mouth would curve, the way his laugh would sound bright and sharp like glass in sunlight as his fingers tighten, as his weight presses harder at Shizuo’s legs under him, and Shizuo is arching up without meaning to, bucking his hips up to meet the friction of what he imagines is Izaya’s hand stroking over him. He can almost feel the other’s weight against him, can almost hear the sound of the other’s breathing coming harder in time with his own, and it’s then that he thinks of pressing his hand to the heavy fabric of Izaya’s pants, that he imagines working his hand down into the undone front of Izaya’s jeans to drag his fingers over the flushed resistance of the other’s cock against his touch. Shizuo can imagine Izaya’s head tipping back at the contact, can see the curve of his throat working on a groan at the friction, and his fantasy is starting to fracture but it doesn’t matter, not now that he’s stroking over himself as fast as he is. He imagines Izaya’s hand around him, imagines the graceful flex of the other’s wrist as he draws heat up Shizuo’s spine; he imagines Izaya gasping under him, imagines pushing the other’s shoulders back against the wall next to the bed and holding him down while Shizuo strokes an easy grip over his cock. He can smell Izaya in the air, can catch the taste of him on his tongue, can feel the tremble of the other’s lips against his as Shizuo pulls him into a kiss as everything in his body drags tight and straining towards pleasure. Shizuo can imagine the weight of Izaya against him, can picture the sharp edges of the other’s body pressing hard against him, can see the way Izaya’s eyes would go wide with oncoming pleasure, the way his spine would curve to arch him back against the sheets. Shizuo’s legs are shaking, his hand moving doubletime as he drags fast over himself; and in his mind Izaya moans, the lilt of his voice breaking open over Shizuo’s name, and in reality Shizuo bucks up into his hand and groans something so hot it’s almost a plea as his cock jerks and spurts sticky over his fingers. The jolts of pleasure shudder through him with irresistible force, his body trembling through the tension straining along his spine as the waves of relief crest and break over him, until all that’s left for Shizuo to do is to let himself fall heavy to the sheets and pant for air superheated by the radiance of heat in his veins.

Shizuo doesn’t move for a few minutes. Satisfaction is still lacing through him, still purring contentment into his veins as adrenaline looses its grip on his body, as pleasure lets him sag breathless and heavy into the sheets under him. His fantasy is collapsing on itself, the details fading in clarity and importance with every breath of air he takes; the imagined weight fades from his legs, the momentary illusion of a touch other than his own eases from his skin. But the smell of Izaya’s skin still clings to the air, sticking to the heat of Shizuo’s inhales like it’s trying to slip inside his body and nestle against his chest, and Shizuo keeps his eyes shut, and keeps breathing deep lungfuls of air as if to hold the trace of Izaya closer against himself.

It’s not like his heart belongs to him anymore anyway.


	27. Obvious

Shizuo pays no attention at all to class the first day of the new school year.

He’s trying to. His intentions are good: his goal is to pass the hours to lunch by focusing on the pages of his textbook and the sound of his teacher’s voice and very definitely not on the fact of Izaya in the same building, on the same floor, sitting in a classroom not two rooms away from Shizuo’s own. It’s not like Izaya’s proximity should make a difference; Shizuo can’t touch him, can’t see him, there’s nothing at all different about his classroom just for the blue Raijin jacket Izaya wore on the walk to school this morning. But it is different, or at least he is different, because while his teacher is speaking all Shizuo can think about is the way the sunlight caught to shadows against Izaya’s hair, and when he glances at the clock all he’s thinking about is the hours left to lunch, and the closer the break gets the faster his heart pounds, as if sitting together over lunch for the first time in a year carries the emotional weight of a date. Shizuo knows it doesn’t, knows he’s being ridiculous -- he’s been eating lunch with Shinra and Kadota for a year, there should be nothing that exciting about the same rooftop made familiar with use over the last several months -- but excited is what he is, regardless of the logic or rationality of that, and when class finally concludes to release him to the hallway he can feel his heart racing the faster with every step he takes. The crowd is sparse, still, the other students in less of a breathless rush to get themselves to wherever they will collect to eat lunch, and by the time Shizuo gets to the doorway of Izaya’s classroom the seats are only half-empty, the aisles filled with the barrier made by clusters of the new students as they introduce themselves or maneuver to speak to old friends. There are a dozen first years still in the class, a double handful of faces and names Shizuo doesn’t know; but his attention swings carelessly over the strangers more like they’re obstacles than anything else, his gaze passing over lighter hair or broader shoulders to find out Izaya still in his seat at the back of the room. Izaya’s watching Shizuo, his gaze steady on the other even from across the space; their eyes meet for a moment, Izaya’s mouth quirks on a smile, and then he ducks his head over the textbook in front of him with as much ostentatious focus as if he had never seen Shizuo at all. Shizuo huffs a laugh that goes unseen, rolls his eyes towards the ceiling of the classroom, and when he comes forward over the gap between them it’s with a smile caught at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you like high school?” he asks as he comes closer and turns sideways to lean hard against the edge of the empty desk alongside Izaya’s.

Izaya purses his lips without looking up and reaches out to flip through a few pages of his math textbook. His wrist makes a sharp angle against the sleeve of his coat, his fingers drawing over the edge of the book like poetry made into the elegance of action. “It’s boring,” he says, his voice as drawlingly elegant as the shift of his fingers. “Not much different than middle school.”

“No one said it’d be particularly interesting,” Shizuo tells him, forehead creasing as his attention clings to the tangle of Izaya’s hair against the back of his coat collar. He tightens his fingers against the edge of the desk to keep from reaching out and knocking the strands free with his fingertips. “At least it’s safer than those stupid games you play with the yakuza.”

“Do you really think so?” Izaya asks, turning his head up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. His smile is bright against his lips. “With you here, senpai, the school could turn into a warzone at any moment.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya looks back at his desk to flip his textbook shut before bracing a hand against the edge of the table and pushing himself fluidly to his feet. Shizuo straightens from the support of the desk behind him as Izaya stands, turning to track the other’s motion as Izaya steps out into the aisle between the chairs. “I keep telling you, I don’t get into fights hardly at all anymore. Even if I did, I wouldn’t hurt _you_.”

Izaya laughs a sharp burst of sound, disbelief and mockery warring for control over his tone. “That’s a comfort.” He takes the lead for the door of the classroom without turning around, walking fast so Shizuo is left to trail in his wake and can’t see the expression on the other’s face that goes with the low shimmer of heat on his voice. “I’m sure you’ll be careful to recall this precise conversation the next time you fly into a rage.”

“Shut up.” Izaya beelines for the stairs to the roof with unerring precision; Shizuo isn’t even surprised that the other seems to know the school as well as he does after just a morning spent in the confines of a classroom. He’s too distracted by the pressure against the inside of his chest, by the weight of horror that burdens his breathing at even the half-formed idea of hurting Izaya. He stares at the line of the other’s shoulders under his new blue coat as he follow him up the stairs, feels the ache of sincerity tangling on his tongue to pull his words rough and insufficient even before he voices them. “I don’t have any reason to hurt you.”

“Oh, is that all?” Izaya doesn’t turn around to look at Shizuo; he’s moving faster, all but running up the steps as if he’s trying to escape even though there’s nowhere for him to go but the roof. He pauses at the landing, looks back to grin at Shizuo as he balances against the edge of the stair railing; Shizuo rolls his eyes and slows his pace from two steps at a time to one, now that Izaya is visibly waiting for him. “I’ll have to give you some reasons, then.”

Shizuo can feel his shoulders hunch on preemptive panic for whatever it is Izaya intends to attempt in pursuit of this stated goal. “You do _not_ ,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends, but Izaya’s grin doesn’t flicker. “I have enough to worry about with you as it is.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Izaya tells him, as if this is true, as if need has anything at all to do with the unshakeable focus in Shizuo’s thoughts that always land on Izaya when left to their own wandering. Izaya slides away from the railing as Shizuo approaches, stepping up to the next stair and pivoting to start the ascent backwards; his mouth catches and holds a smile for a moment. “Though believe me, I’m honored by your concern.”

“Sure you are,” Shizuo says, retreating to sarcasm as the best defense against the almost-sincerity in Izaya’s voice and the suggestion of softness behind his eyes. Izaya’s foot catches against the edge of one of the steps, his balance teetering for a moment before he regains it. Shizuo flinches reflexively and follows Izaya towards the stairs with the expectation of the other’s fall tensing adrenaline into his shoulders. “You’re going to hurt yourself doing that.”

“ _Honored_ ,” Izaya laughs, and takes the next two steps at a rapidfire pace. “I’ve missed your fretting, senpai, really I have.”

He’s joking, Shizuo thinks; he’s fairly sure the lilt of the other’s voice is shaped around the beginnings of laughter, that the amusement is at Shizuo’s expense more than it is over a shared joke. But the words still hit with all the force of sincerity, _I’ve missed you_ almost audible under the amusement in Izaya’s voice, and Shizuo can feel his skin prickle with that same desperate hope he feels every time he convinces himself of some affection in Izaya’s voice, every time he hears the suggestion of honesty under the other’s words.

“You’ve only gotten more irritating,” he says, starting up the stairs after Izaya while he tries to hold to a teasing growl to cover the shiver of heat he can feel in his throat. “Were you _practicing_ over the last year or something?”

Izaya’s grin flashes bright as he backs away from Shizuo up the stairs. “Maybe you’ve just forgotten,” he purrs, his voice like smoke in Shizuo’s ears as he balances on one foot at the edge of the top landing, swinging his other out wide so his balance wobbles dangerously at the edge of the support. He’s watching Shizuo and not where he’s going, his smile pulling wider at Shizuo’s flinch of panic, and Shizuo’s adrenaline coalesces in his veins, hardening to determination as he sets his feet against the support of the stair under him.

“Brat,” he says, like the punctuation at the end of a sentence, and then he pushes himself forward, taking the remaining stairs in a rush as Izaya freezes, his eyes going wide as his expression falls to involuntary panic. His foot hits the floor under him, his shoulders tip back and away, and Shizuo catches his arm across Izaya’s chest, his fingers closing against the other’s shoulder as he pushes him back and over the landing. Izaya makes a single, startled sound, like an inhale choked-off on too much adrenaline as he grabs hard at Shizuo’s arm around him, and for just a moment Shizuo has the keeping of both their balance, with Izaya caught in the curve of his arm and too breathless with startled adrenaline to speak. Shizuo’s heart is pounding, Izaya is warm and close against him, and for the span of a breath Shizuo’s nose is pressed close against Izaya’s hair and he can taste that spicy bite of Izaya’s skin against his lips.

“You should have seen your face,” he says, low against Izaya’s ear, and Izaya catches a breath like he’s been shocked by the sound of Shizuo’s voice against his skin. He’s closer than Shizuo was prepared for; Shizuo can feel the rush of Izaya’s breathing in the other’s chest pressed flush against his, can feel the warmth of Izaya’s exhales sliding inside the line of his jacket collar. Shizuo’s nose is against Izaya’s hair, his lips all but pressed to the other’s ear; there’s licorice on his tongue, the smell dizzying his thoughts, and for a heartbeat of time his imagination veers on wild possibility, hisses that he should turn his head, that he should duck in over the breathless gap and press his lips to Izaya’s cheek. It would be so easy, it would be effortless: he could fit his mouth to the arch of the other’s cheekbone, could press affection to the warm of Izaya’s skin, could kiss his way down to Izaya’s mouth to tangle the heat of the other’s breathing with his, to see if Izaya tastes like he smells, if filling his mouth with Izaya would be enough to undo the aching tension of want he carries with him like a constant weight. Izaya can’t slip away like this, not with Shizuo’s arm around him, it would be so easy to pin down the maybe-offer in his eyes and the constant suggestion of his smile with Shizuo’s mouth, to force the answer Shizuo thinks he knows but needs to hear from the soft of the other’s lips, it would be -- and Izaya’s fingers tighten on Shizuo’s arm, and Shizuo comes back to himself in a rush and lets the other’s shoulder go all at once, stepping away to retreat to the door of the rooftop as his heart skids doubletime on the _almost_ still thudding in his veins.

“Come on,” he manages, forcing the words past the heat in his pulse and the surging want tense in every line of his body. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Izaya doesn’t answer for a moment. When Shizuo looks back at him he’s still facing away down the shadows of the stairwell; it takes a moment before he turns, and even then his eyes are wide and dark, his gaze so soft it’s nearly pleading in spite of the shaky attempt at his usual smirk he manages. He looks shaken, looks anxious and tense in a way that feels like a mirror for the way Shizuo’s heart is trying to pound out of his chest. Shizuo’s stomach drops, his breathing catches on a moment of suspicion so strong it’s near certainty, and then Izaya looks down to Shizuo’s hand on the door and says “Does it matter?” with his voice trembling so badly it’s almost a confession. “You’re just going to feed me anyway, aren’t you?”

Shizuo’s laugh startles him, spilling up out of his throat on the adrenaline rush of the almost-confirmation written into Izaya’s hunched shoulders, thrumming under his voice, caught in the downward slant of his lashes. Shizuo pulls the door open for them both; and then reckless hope gets the better of him at last and dares him to bring his arm up and drop it around Izaya’s shoulders as the other draws closer. Izaya stiffens at once, his whole body going tense like Shizuo’s touch is electrifying him, but when Shizuo glances sideways at him his mouth is still soft, curving on uncertainty rather than panic. Shizuo shifts his arm, shuffling in a little closer in an attempt to recreate some of that momentary closeness at the top of the stairs, and Izaya looks up at him for just a moment, glancing at Shizuo’s face like he’s looking for some kind of confirmation, like he’s looking for the answer to the question neither of them have yet put voice to. He looks away almost immediately, ducking his head back to the shadow of his hair; but when he shifts his weight it’s to lean in closer, to bump the angle of his shoulder hard against Shizuo’s chest like he’s lost his balance again, like he’s relying on the support of Shizuo against him to keep him upright.

Shizuo’s smile is as irrepressible as Izaya’s affection is obvious.


	28. Tolerant

It’s not difficult to spot Shinra from across the distance of the park. He might blend in a little better than Shizuo does, with the darker shade of his hair and similarly unobtrusive school uniform; but he has an energy to his speech that leads him to flail his arms through the air as if he’s on a stage, gesturing through his speech or fiddling with his glasses as though to ensure they’re always clinging to the illumination of the sunlight, and besides the woman next to him is unmistakable even at a distance. Shizuo doesn’t know what kind of fabric Celty’s clothes are made of, but whatever it is they seem to absorb light as effectively as the nighttime sky, as if a shadow has detached itself from a nearby building to walk around in the shape of a person for a period of time.

“There they are,” Izaya says needlessly from over Shizuo’s shoulder. He’s been balancing along the edge of the wall he so likes to perch on when he and Shizuo are here alone; Shizuo thinks he’s spent more time watching the pace of Izaya’s feet along the ledge than keeping track of his own, but the other hasn’t attempted anything too reckless as yet so Shizuo hasn’t complained beyond his usual token growl of frustration. When he looks up Izaya’s watching the other two instead of him, his hair backlit by the glow of the sunlight to fit the suggestion of a halo against the dark of the strands. “The lovebirds.”

“Celty hasn’t said yes yet,” Shizuo reminds him without looking away from the sharp edges of Izaya’s profile. “Shinra’s just obsessed, that’s the not the same as them dating.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Izaya declares airily. “Shinra’s not going to let it go and she hasn’t left yet.”

Shizuo can feel his mouth quirk on the beginnings of a laugh. “She’s in love because she’s tolerated him this long?”

“Sure.” Izaya spreads his arms out to the sides, balances heel-to-toe against the very edge of the wall with perfect equilibrium. “Why, do you think love is something different?”

Shizuo can feel the obvious comparison prickling under his skin, can hear the unspoken point of Izaya’s statement hovering like a promise just behind the other’s tongue. “I--”

“There’s Dotachin,” Izaya says abruptly, turning his head and breaking the focus Shizuo has on his face. “Help me down, senpai.”

“Get down yourself,” Shizuo tells him, habitual protest falling easy from his lips as he reaches up to offer a hand to the other. Izaya takes it without hesitation, pressing his palm flush against Shizuo’s and curling his fingers into a bracing hold at the other’s hand; Shizuo’s touch brushes the inside of Izaya’s wrist, his thumb settling gentle against the angle of bone under the skin as Izaya leans hard against the support and leaps down from the wall. It’s a graceful motion, as effortless as if Izaya has no real weight at all, as if the guidance of Shizuo’s hand is more to tether him to the earth than to keep him from falling, and Shizuo is still blinking from the ease of the action as Izaya slides his hand free with the same careless grace and turns away towards the group of the other three. Shizuo’s left to trail in the other’s wake, his hand still tingling from the slide of Izaya’s skin against his, and by the time he catches them up Shinra’s already halfway into the story of his morning.

“She said she couldn’t take me on her motorcycle,” he’s complaining now, undermining the weight of his words by the cheerful tone he’s adopting for the statement. “Since I don’t have adequate safety gear. But I think she just didn’t want the distraction of us being so close, I know I wouldn’t be able to keep my mind on the road with Celty pressed up against me!”

 _Shut up, Shinra_ , Celty types to him, holding the phone at enough of an angle for the other three to read it too. _That’s not the problem here_.

“Oh, there’s no problem!” Shinra chirps, beaming delight at Celty next to him. “I’m just glad to spend time with you, even if we did have to walk!”

“It’s not all that far for you, is it?” Kadota asks. Shizuo considers the edge of the wall Celty and Shinra are leaning against and the bench just across from them before moving to claim the seat opposite the other two for easier reading of Celty’s messages. “It’s a nice afternoon too, the walk couldn’t have been all that bad.”

“It would be fun to ride a motorcycle,” Izaya says, turning away from the others to move towards Shizuo. “I’d be disappointed to miss the opportunity too.” The bench is relatively wide, enough to fit two people comfortably or three at a pinch; Izaya sits nearly in the middle, close enough that his knee is pressing flush against Shizuo’s and his sleeve is catching against the other’s elbow. Shizuo looks sideways but Izaya’s not looking at him at all; he’s grinning at the other three, apparently entirely unconcerned by the casual weight of his leg bumping against Shizuo’s.

“It would have been a wonderful opportunity,” Shinra sighs, shaking his head as if borne down by the weight of the world; then he lifts his chin again, his brief melancholy evaporating like it was never there at all as he says, “Oh, Izaya-kun, did you end up rejecting that girl?”

The sunlight is warm outside of the shade of the trees; if anything Shizuo is verging on too hot in the direct glow of it. But with Shinra’s words comes a shiver as if ice is sliding down his spine, stripping the heat from the air and his comfort with it. Kadota makes a face, cringing like Shinra has blurted some secret, and Izaya says “Of course,” with such immediate speed that he’s nearly speaking over the end of Shinra’s sentence. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What girl?” Shizuo asks.

“Just a girl who came by at lunch yesterday while you were talking to your teacher,” Kadota says, his voice perfectly level and absent any details. “She wanted to talk to Orihara.” His tone says that’s the end of the story; but Shinra is blinking at him, looking faintly confused and excited in a way that makes Shizuo more nervous than otherwise.

“She was confessing to him,” Shinra clarifies, overloud against the bright clear of the air, and Kadota sighs and shrugs away whatever resistance he was trying to offer. “I didn’t think he said yes, from how disappointed she looked, but--”

“I rejected her,” Izaya says, his voice sharp and cutting enough to stem the flow of words from Shinra. When Shizuo looks at him he’s glaring at the other boy, his cheeks marked with spots of red that look more like anger than embarrassment. “Why does this matter?”

Shinra shrugs. “If you say it doesn’t I guess it doesn’t!” He still sounds as easy in himself as if he’s completely oblivious to the tension under Izaya’s voice, is still smiling like he’s unaware of the strain forming at the edges of the conversation. “I was just curious!”

“Don’t be nosy,” Izaya snaps, and Shinra laughs like this is a joke and turns to say something to Kadota that Shizuo doesn’t pay attention to.

“You got a confession?” he asks instead, dropping his voice low enough so the words will only be intelligible to Izaya.

“Of course I did,” Izaya says, just as softly and without looking up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “Despite what you may think I’m considered reasonably attractive, senpai.”

“ _What?_ ” Shizuo blurts. “I think you’re--” He stalls himself to silence, closes his mouth as he feels his cheeks glow into heat. “I don’t think you’re unattractive.”

Izaya glances at him sideways. His cheeks are still flushed, his shoulders still tense, but for just a moment there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, the suggestion of a laugh straining at his lips while he fights it back.

“Thanks,” he says, and looks away again. “For what it’s worth it’s not your looks holding back the hoards of admirers from throwing themselves at your feet. You’re very handsome for a monster.”

Shizuo’s entire face burns into a blush. “Shut _up_ ,” he says, and Izaya’s mouth gives way to a smile for a heartbeat before the tension still in him overcomes the brief amusement. “Stop changing the subject.”

Izaya rolls his eyes without quite looking over to meet Shizuo’s stare. “Yes, I got a confession. I told her no. It’s not a big deal. I got confessed to in middle school all the time after you graduated.”

Shizuo swallows hard. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Izaya kicks his feet out in front of him and leans back hard against the back of the bench. “Apparently you frightened everyone enough that they didn’t want to try to talk to me when you were around. Maybe they thought you’d try to hit them if they came too close.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo says automatically, but there’s something tight around his chest, some instinctive viciousness that’s growling at the idea of listening to someone confess her affection to Izaya, some edge of jealousy that wants him to touch, to claim, to press his skin so close against the other’s that he smells more like Shizuo than he does like himself. “You didn’t say yes?”

“Oh, yes, now that you mention it,” Izaya says. “I _did_ accept one, how silly of me to forget, I’ll have to introduce you to my girlfriend the next time we’re out.” He turns his head to give Shizuo a flat stare. “Of course I didn’t. I would have told you if I had.”

“You didn’t tell me you were getting confessions,” Shizuo tells him.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Izaya fires back. “I’m not going to accept them, okay?” He looks away again; his cheeks are still dark with lingering color. “Don’t worry about it, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo doesn’t know what it is about Izaya’s tone that carries the weight with it, if it’s the low murmur of sound or the way his voice dips over Shizuo’s name or the cadence of the words themselves. Maybe it’s not his tone at all; maybe it’s the hunch of his shoulders, or the color in his cheeks, or the way that he glances sideways at Shizuo without quite meeting his gaze like he’s trying to gauge the other’s reaction without getting caught. Whatever the cause, the result is a sincerity like Shizuo’s never heard before, a resonance of honesty that undoes the knot of jealous panic in his chest and lets him let his breath out in a rush of a relieved sigh.

“Okay,” he says, and looks back out to where Shinra is laughing at something on Celty’s screen while Kadota grins quiet amusement from alongside them. “I won’t.”

Izaya doesn’t answer out loud, but when he shifts his weight the movement tips him hard to the side to let his shoulder press at Shizuo’s arm for a moment that goes on a handful of seconds longer than it has to. Shizuo can feel the comfort of the contact like electricity spreading out to fill his veins with tingling heat.

The sunshine is warm against his skin.


	29. Believe

Shizuo doesn’t speak until Izaya turns down the wrong street.

He’s been warm all day, glowing through his whole body with happiness starbright on anticipation of the evening ever since he invited the other boy over for Christmas dinner and received a laugh and a taunt in response that both add up to _yes_ , in the strange not-quite communication Shizuo is learning to read almost as well as words or body language. It’s been pleasant just to spend the day with Izaya, exciting just to linger in the other’s presence over the hours of their day off, and every time Izaya grabbed at Shizuo’s sleeve or leaned in against the other’s shoulder or cut his eyes sideways to smile flirtation up through his lashes Shizuo’s mind caught the moment like a snapshot, piled up all the evidence of the afternoon to whisper _date_ with a force he can’t ignore even if he hasn’t put voice to the word aloud. It’s enough to have the experience, he tells himself, enough that everything about the afternoon together has felt more romantic than platonic, until the framework of a title seems more redundant than necessary. It’s true that Shizuo’s hand is in his pocket instead of interlaced with Izaya’s, true that there’s a gap between them still a little too tense to be easily crossed; but it’s enough, for now, enough to haze Shizuo’s thoughts to distraction until he almost misses Izaya’s turn and has to pivot sharply on his heel to follow the other boy down the street he’s taken.

“This isn’t the way home,” he says as he jogs back into pace with Izaya. “Where are we going?”

Izaya flashes a smirk sideways at Shizuo, the winter sunlight catching bright against his teeth and saturating his eyes to shadowed-over crimson behind his lashes. “Is it not? Shocking, that after all these years I still can’t remember where you live.” Shizuo snorts amusement and swings his arm out in an offhand attempt at a blow that he knows won’t land; Izaya dips his head without even hesitating and lets the motion of Shizuo’s blow ruffle through his hair accompanied by a laugh as edge-bright as sunlight on frost.

“I need to stop by my house,” he answers as he falls back into stride alongside Shizuo. “Then you can remind me of how to get to yours.”

Shizuo’s smile comes too easy for him to try to repress, turns his “Brat” as soft and gentle as an endearment against his tongue. “What do you need to go home for? We’re having dinner at my place, I told you.”

“You did,” Izaya says, tossing his hair back from his face and glancing sideways at Shizuo to raise an eyebrow. “This afternoon, actually. You’re lucky I didn’t already have Christmas plans, senpai, or you would be left all alone tonight. It would serve you right for waiting to ask until so late.”

He’s teasing. That fact is clear in every aspect of his speech, from the tension clinging to laughter in the back of his throat to the sideways angle of the glance he’s aiming at Shizuo. Shizuo still feels the possibility hit him like a blow, still has a moment of unwarranted jealousy the more painful for how rarely he feels it just at the hypothetical statement of Izaya having Christmas plans with someone else. He can feel his expression darkening, can feel his chest going tight, and when he says “Izaya-kun…” he doesn’t know what’s going to follow, an admonishment to not tease or a full-blown confession or just the frustration of the word itself.

Izaya doesn’t give him a chance to figure it out. “I have to check on my sisters,” he says, looking away from Shizuo’s expression to gaze at the sidewalk in front of them. “They’re expecting me home tonight and I want to make sure they’re not out with a harem, at least not until later in the evening.”

Shizuo coughs. “Izaya-kun.”

Izaya doesn’t look at him. “Mm?”

“How old are your sisters now?”

Izaya gasps a sound of affected hurt and lifts his hand to touch the breast of his coat as he looks back up at Shizuo with a decent approximation of wounded pain behind his eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten so soon, Shizuo-senpai, does my devotion mean nothing to you?”

Shizuo fights back a smile at Izaya’s choice of words. “Don’t be a brat.”

Izaya’s show of drama evaporates into a flash of a smile, his hand falling to his side as he darts ahead on the sidewalk again by a handful of strides. “They’re seven. Eight in February.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “They’re _kids_ ,” he reminds Izaya. “They’re not going to have _boyfriends_ yet.”

Izaya looks back over his shoulder, his chin dipped down to cast his eyes into unreadable shadows. “Don’t underestimate Oriharas,” he tells Shizuo, his voice low on the shape of an overdone warning. “My sisters are extremely precocious.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says, feeling his attempt at resistance giving way to the curve of Izaya’s smile and the dark focus of his eyes even before his frown collapses into a laugh. “Fine. We’ll check on your precocious sisters before going back to my place for dinner.”

“You should be careful,” Izaya tells him, swinging an arm wide as he pivots on one foot to face Shizuo and continue backwards along the pavement. “They might try to seduce you if you don’t have your guard up.”

“I think I can handle myself against a pair of seven-year-old girls,” Shizuo tells him without putting voice to the truth that any attempted seduction of him is bound to fall flat with Izaya there to hold his attention, that when it comes to flirtations with Oriharas he’s already head-over-heels for the only one he cares about. “Don’t do that, you’ll walk into someone.”

“As you command, senpai,” Izaya purrs, turning back and away and slowing his pace enough for Shizuo to catch him up over the span of a few long strides. He doesn’t look back up to make eye contact, but he’s smiling when Shizuo glances down at him, holding the curve of his lips under the shadow of his hair like a secret, and that’s enough to keep Shizuo smiling for the last few feet to Izaya’s front gate. Izaya moves ahead as they round the corner, dropping into the easy rhythm of a jog as he comes up to the entrance and unlocks the door; he’s stepping into the hallway as Shizuo comes up the steps, calling as he comes forward: “Mairu. Kururi. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?”

There’s a murmur of sound, too faint for Shizuo to pick out on the far side of the doorway, but then a louder response: “We wouldn’t tell you if we had!”

“Good,” Izaya yells back without missing a beat. He looks back over his shoulder to Shizuo standing on the front step and offers the breathless bright of a smile as he kicks his shoes off in the entryway. “I’ll be just a minute,” he says, and then he’s gone, padding down the hallway in the direction of the voices without bothering with turning on a light beyond the one in the entrance. Shizuo can hear the low purr of sound from the other room, conversation too faint to be intelligible; he’s left to sit at the edge of the entryway and tug his shoes off more for the distraction of the action than any real need. He’s expecting to barely have his first off before Izaya returns to make the action futile; but he takes the first off, and the second alongside it, and even after he’s lined them up alongside Izaya’s the other boy is still halfway down the hallway, the crackle of his laughter coming sharp enough to sound insincere even before Shizuo gets to his feet and moves to follow Izaya into the shadows.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, pitching his voice loud to carry well before he’s in range of physical contact. “I thought you said it would only take a minute.”

“Just dealing with my sisters,” Izaya says, speaking fast and turning faster, as if to make up for his hesitation by the speed with which he appears ready to bolt for the door. “We’re just finishing.”

“Are you going out with Iza-nii for Christmas?” one of the twins asks; Mairu, from the volume. When Shizuo squints into the dim-lit room he can just make out both of the girls staring at him from the couch, their expressions formed of identical focus absent any readable emotion.

“Yeah,” he says without turning away. “He’s coming over for dinner.”

“By himself?” Kururi murmurs, her voice so soft Shizuo can barely hear the syllables for the low hiss of the television humming backlit behind the two girls.

Shizuo can feel his face glow into heat, can feel self-consciousness hunching into his shoulders as if his personal happiness over the label he’s been attaching to the afternoon has become a weight against his shoulders. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice creaking under the strain of attempted calm. “Shinra’s with Celty and Kadota--”

“Had a date,” Izaya finishes, as fluidly as if Shizuo’s words are a cue. “Like I do, with my _boyfriend_.” His hand closes at Shizuo’s elbow, his fingers digging in with all the sharp edge of a knife as he shoves hard enough to stumble Shizuo’s balance backwards towards the light in the entryway.

“Have fun,” Izaya says without looking back. “ _We_ definitely will.” There’s a response from one of the girls, a shout that follows them down the hallway, but Shizuo isn’t listening to it; he’s pretty sure the entire house could vanish from around him and he wouldn’t notice for how hyper-focused his attention is on Izaya. The other’s not looking at him any more than he looked back to his sisters; he’s just pushing Shizuo backwards, nearly dragging him with a strength Shizuo didn’t know he possessed, as if he can outpace the color radiating scarlet all across the high line of his cheekbones.

“ _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo manages as Izaya pushes them back to the entryway and drops to sit hard at the edge of the step. Shizuo stumbles himself back into balance, gets his feet under him again without the force of Izaya’s hold to force him off his feet, but he still feels like the world is spinning, still feels like Izaya’s pulled the very presence of gravity out from under him to leave him dizzy and helpless to the impossible ideas racing through his mind, to the sound of Izaya’s voice on _date_ , on _boyfriend_ , the weight of the words bruising farther into Shizuo’s composure than Izaya’s too-tight hold bruised his arm. “ _What_...you…”

“They would have said it in a minute themselves,” Izaya says to his shoes. Shizuo can’t see his expression, can’t get a read on his voice; Izaya sounds distant, or maybe it’s the sound of Shizuo’s own pulse thudding so loud in his ears that’s eclipsing the trace of emotion on the other’s voice that could grant him some kind of traction on this moment. “I just beat them to it.”

“But.” Izaya’s not looking up; his head is bowed too far forward, Shizuo can’t see his expression at all. Shizuo’s heart is beating faster than he thinks it ever has before, panic and adrenaline and the surge of desperate hope he can’t hold back running so hard through him that he feels dizzy, that his whole sense of the world feels like it’s veering sideways. “But we’re _not_.”

 _There’s no way_ , Shizuo’s mind tells him, rationality making a desperate bid at argumentation against the hope so strong it might as well be deaf and blind to any attempts at persuasion in the other direction. _You would know, he would have told you, you can’t_ possibly _be dating without_ knowing. But _are you sure?_ hope purrs, tingling thrill all down Shizuo’s spine and out into the curve of his fingers as Izaya stays silent, as he keeps his head ducked down and finishes tying his shoe. _Are you_ sure _he would have said something? Maybe he...maybe you...maybe you both are--_

“Come on, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya says, and then he lifts his head, and his eyes are crimson, and his mouth is tense, and Shizuo can feel his hope dash and shatter on the wall of Izaya’s expression even before he finishes talking. “Haven’t you ever lied before?”

Shizuo doesn’t know what expression he makes. Disappointment is heavy in him, a weight he’s sure would shatter the bones of a skeleton less violence-hardened than his own. But there’s none of the relief that would come with a physical blow, none of the almost-satisfaction that follows on the bruising force of a punch or the impact of a kick; there’s just bitterness, resignation the worse for the moment of hope that went before, and the sharp edge of almost-amusement underneath, self-deprecation so painful Shizuo nearly laughs with it. There’s no humor in the sensation, no comfort in the thought; just disappointment, like a bruise to settle against the inside of his ribs instead of the outside, to press hard around his heart with a weight he can’t shake.

He should have known better than to believe anything Izaya says.


	30. Bruised

Of all the things that have happened as a result of his friendship with Shinra, Shizuo sometimes thinks meeting Celty was the best one.

Celty makes for good companionship. Kadota is pleasant to be around, Shinra somewhat more stressful but still entertaining; Izaya is an entire experience all on his own, was even before being around him turned into a constant battle between his off-hand flirtation and Shizuo’s too-real reaction to it. But Celty is easy to be around, comforting even just for the quiet she offers with her lack of speech, and Shizuo finds it’s easier than he expected to waste the whole of an afternoon just wandering around the city with her on those rare days Izaya makes himself so scarce that Shizuo doesn’t see him even for the span of an hour. There’s always the possibility he and Celty might run into the other boy on accident, after all, and even when they don’t Shizuo always goes home calmer, steadier, as if the simple fact of Celty’s presence has stripped away some of the strain from his shoulders and eased some of the burden that bears so heavy on his heart.

“Do you want to go to a cafe?” Shizuo asks now, as Celty stirs restlessly beside him on the edge of the wall they’ve settled on. “I know you’re not one for coffee but there’s a new tea place that opened up and I hear they’ve got really good milkshakes I’d like to try.”

Celty’s typing is so fast Shizuo almost doesn’t see her fingers move for the shadow the motion casts. _Sure_ , is what the glow of the screen offers as she holds it up to him. _Shinra was telling me about that the other day, I’d like to see what the fuss is about it._

“Cool,” Shizuo says, and then there’s a hum from the phone in his pocket, the buzz of an incoming text message that makes him frown distraction as he looks down and reaches for it. “Sorry, one sec.”

He doesn’t get text messages often. Shinra is prone to fast-paced phone calls if he needs anything, and Celty’s occasional movie recommendations are unlikely to be coming through when she’s sitting right next to him. Kasuka has a cell phone but Shizuo’s never known him to actually initiate a conversation with it; there’s only one person who texts Shizuo with any regularity, and his heart is beating faster in anticipation even before he sees the display that promises _(1) new message_ from _Izaya-kun_.

Shizuo opens it right away. Usually Izaya’s messages are brief things, unintelligible taunts that don’t make sense until the other appears moments later to clarify or the occasional photograph of a shady alley or a blurry hand of poker with the text _nothing to worry about, senpai ;)_ perfectly calibrated to ensure Shizuo loses hours of sleep late in the evening. But this is something different, neither a picture nor teasing; just an array of words jumbled together until Shizuo can’t make any sense of them, and underneath, on a line all its own: _help_ without any further clarification to mitigate the ice that rushes over Shizuo’s skin like there’s a sudden chill in the warmth of the air. He stares at the message, feeling his shoulders tighten against sudden stress, and then there’s a touch at his shoulder, and he jerks his head up just as he realizes Celty’s been trying to get his attention for a few seconds.

 _Everything okay?_ her screen asks. _You look like you’ve seen a ghost_.

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits. He holds his phone out for Celty to take. “What does the first part mean?”

Celty touches the edge of his phone, tips in towards it as if to read it for a moment of time far too brief to allow her to take in the words before she’s tapping rapidfire into her PDA. She’s offering it again before Shizuo has had a chance to take a breath, the two words _An address_ clicking into the weight of recognition as soon as he sees them. She pulls her PDA back to resume her typing, but Shizuo reaches out to catch her wrist and stop the motion.

“I know where it is,” he says, and he’s pushing to his feet as fast as he shuts his phone and returns it to his pocket. “Sorry, Celty, we’re going to have to go to that cafe later.”

Celty waves a hand, the gesture better than the typed-out response that Shizuo can’t wait for, because he’s turning away already, his feet hitting the rhythm of a jog before he’s thought of it and speeding to a run as he crosses the street to the sidewalk on the other side. The address is only a few blocks away -- faster to cover on foot than to navigate with midday traffic on Celty’s motorcycle -- but Shizuo’s heart is still pounding too hard to let him get a breath, his lungs straining on panic that only intensifies with every second that passes to expand on the details of what could be happening, of what Izaya might be going through. He’s listening for shouts, for screams, for some sign of conflict as he draws nearer to the cross-street Izaya’s text indicated; but there’s nothing, everything seems so utterly peaceful Shizuo has a brief moment of hope that maybe Izaya is teasing him, maybe his amusement in Shizuo’s concern for his safety has taken a far crueler turn than what has ever come before. Shizuo draws to a stop at the crossing Izaya indicated, gives a brief once-over to the bare handful of people at the corner and sees Izaya nowhere, and he can feel his shoulders sag into relief, can manage to take a full breath to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen.

Then he hears a voice from a side alley, a low rumble of conversation like the speaker is trying to avoid being heard clearly, and everything in him crystallizes into adrenaline in the gap between one breath and the next.

Shizuo doesn’t think at all as he rounds the corner to the alley. It’s shadowy in the space, hard to see the details with his vision sun-blinded from the bright of the main street; but he can see well enough to make out the shape of two figures, too tall and too broad to be Izaya, standing over a crumpled shape against the wall of the alley. Shizuo doesn’t need to see the pale lining at the sleeves and collar of a familiar coat to know who it is lying so terrifyingly still against the ground; he doesn’t think about it at all, in fact, the adrenaline that has seized control of his body sets the fear neatly aside to be dealt with later. Right now there are threats, sources of possible danger that need to be removed, and neither of them turn as Shizuo approaches, too caught in their murmured conversation to turn for the sound of scuff-soft footsteps. Shizuo doesn’t try to hear what they’re saying, doesn’t try to make sense of the words he can almost parse from the soft of their voices; he just steps in, close enough for a blow, and when he swings his fist it’s with no warning at all for the force of his knuckles crushing through the delicate bone of a nose to destroy the integrity of the shape.

Someone yells. Shizuo doesn’t know which of the two strangers it is, doesn’t care; it’s not Izaya, and one of them is still standing, and that means there’s no point to stopping yet. He closes his other hand into a fist, digs his fingernails in hard against his palm like he’s grounding himself, and when he turns to the second man his opponent takes a step backwards, his body language flinching back on instinct before Shizuo has even lifted his hand for a swing. There’s sound in Shizuo’s throat, a feral noise of rage as involuntary as the way his arm moves into a smooth arc as if someone else is steering him, as if his anger has truly taken control of his body from the calmer voice of reason he can usually muster. The stranger’s expression is vivid, his eyes wide on horror and his mouth starting to fall open in answering fright, but Shizuo doesn’t care about his reaction; the animal in him is watching the man’s jaw, gauging angle and distance and force as his knuckles swing in to crush destruction against the bone. Shizuo’s knuckles stand off against the stranger’s jaw, bone against bone, and it’s Shizuo’s punch that wins, that sends the other stumbling backwards with a noise of such raw agony that Shizuo knows he’s won, knows there will be no resistance from this source. He could leave it there, could step back and claim his victory here; but he can taste licorice on his tongue, and rage is still crackling in a tsunami through his veins, and what he does instead is swing his other fist up to slam another blow against the fragile bone at the side of the man’s head. Shizuo can feel the way the stranger’s head cants sideways, can feel the unresisting give of his movement as consciousness melts under the force of Shizuo’s blow, and that means the threat the man poses is as absent as his awareness, and that means he can turn back to Izaya.

Izaya’s staring at Shizuo when he turns around. His eyes are open, his body pushed up against the support of an elbow against the ground, and the first thing that hits Shizuo is relief that the other is conscious, reassurance so immediate that he feels as if he’s caught himself halfway through a fall, like the support of the earth under his feet has suddenly reestablished itself when he thought he was in free-fall. He steps in closer, as if to reassure himself of Izaya’s physical safety by proximity, and it’s as Izaya blinks shock up at him that Shizuo see the swelling starting against his cheekbone, the rise of a bruise bad enough that he can see the beginnings of discoloration even as he drops to a knee in front of the other. Shizuo’s hand lifts of its own accord, rising to ghost against the injury swelling across Izaya’s cheekbone, and Izaya jerks as if Shizuo’s touch is electricity, as if his fingertips carry far more pain than they should even against the damage done to the smooth line of his cheek.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo hears himself growl, feeling the word going weighty to carry the raw edge of fury lancing so hot in his veins. He feels like his hand is shaking, like his whole body is thrumming with a hurricane of anger and fear and relief and horror all too impossibly tangled for him to separate. “What did they do to you?”

Izaya takes a shaky breath. Shizuo can hear it drag in the back of his throat, can see the effort it costs in the tension creasing hard in the other’s forehead, and for a moment he has the horrible thought that Izaya might have broken a rib, that he might be struggling to breathe past the stabbing pain that comes with the raw edge of shattered bone. But “Tried to shut me up” is all Izaya says, coupling the words with a flicker of a smile that speaks more to his desperation than offers reassurance. “You arrived just in time, senpai, they were talking about breaking my leg next.”

“ _Fuck_ ” and Shizuo is turning, twisting away from the hurt in Izaya’s expression and that bruise rising to visibility across his cheek as his hands curl into fists, as adrenaline seizes control to steer him towards the violence that comes so much more easily to him than the mental strength needed to face Izaya’s injuries.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Izaya snaps, his voice harsh on what Shizuo is sure is more pain than he ever wanted to imagine Izaya feeling, but when he grabs at Shizuo’s wrist his grip is tight enough to bruise, his fingers digging in hard against the the other’s skin like he’s trying to wrest control of Shizuo’s body away from the fury binding the other’s rationality to mute silence.

Shizuo could pull free. It would be easy to shake Izaya off, even with the other’s full strength clinging tight to his arm; he could drag his arm free, could break the other’s hold, could push to his feet and go back to crush the jaw of the first man too, to let off the tension of his fury into a bone-breaking kick against the ribs of the second. If it were someone else holding him he thinks he would, thinks he would wrest his arm free and go back to tread over the too-brief path of violence he’s already started. But it’s Izaya’s fingers around his wrist, it’s Izaya’s thumb pressing hard against his pulse, and Izaya’s fragile hold has always been able to control the temper all Shizuo’s strength has never been able to hold back.

He looks back instead. It’s hard to look at Izaya, painful to see the too-visible hurt bruising across his face, and Shizuo thinks it’s that pain that drags at his throat, that pulls his demand of “Why _not_?” so rough and grating in his throat.

“Because,” Izaya says. His lashes flutter, his mouth shifts; when he smiles it catches to softness at the corners of his eyes, draws his whole expression into that breathtaking beauty that Shizuo has seen so rarely even in all the years they’ve known each other. It steals his breath, makes him lose all the air in his lungs in a startled exhale, and Izaya takes a breath and talks over any kind of coherency Shizuo might have been able to muster from the tangle of emotion in his head.

“You’d get yourself brought in by the police if you murdered them, senpai.” His eyes are still dark on Shizuo’s face, his mouth still clinging to the edge of that smile. His fingers are as tight around Shizuo’s wrist as a handcuff. “They’re working for someone else anyway.”

Shizuo’s body moves of its own accord. He’s twisting on his heel, dropping to both knees in front of Izaya; when he reaches out to grab at the other’s shoulder it’s too fast, too hard, the sudden rush of protectiveness in him sidestepping the limits he’s been deliberately putting on the strength of his hands, but Izaya doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the force of Shizuo’s fingers at his shoulder.

“ _Who_?” Shizuo grates. _They hurt you. I love you. I’ll destroy them._ “Who are they working for, I’ll _kill_ them.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Izaya says. He’s so close Shizuo can feel the rush of the other’s breathing coming warm against his skin. “You can’t get rid of everyone who has a grudge against me, and it’s stupid to try.”

“This isn’t a _grudge_.” Shizuo shakes at Izaya’s shoulder, trying to impress the weight of his words with physical force as his coherency fails, but Izaya just keeps smiling at him past that swelling bruise, his gaze still so soft against Shizuo’s face that Shizuo can barely breathe for the agony of affection in his chest. “They were going to _kill_ you.”

“And you stopped them.” Izaya’s voice is level, his gaze unflinching; he’s staring at Shizuo like they’re the only two people left alive in the entire world, like there’s no one else that matters in this moment but the two of them. “I’ve told you, senpai, I need a bodyguard.”

Shizuo’s chest tightens, his breathing hisses hard on the sudden knife-sharp weight of Izaya’s words. His rage stutters, fury melting away like ice before summer sunlight, _you stopped them_ weighted over with trust so heavy Shizuo isn’t sure even his much-healed shoulders can bear the burden. _What if I hadn’t?_ his imagination hisses. _What if I wasn’t here? What if I didn’t come? What would you have done without me?_ The questions are heavy, they press on the back of his tongue like they’re weighted with lead; but in the end when he opens his mouth what he says is, “I can’t be with you all the time, Izaya-kun,” with the words falling like an apology that comes too-late to stop the bruise lifting itself to the surface of Izaya’s skin.

Shizuo doesn’t put voice to the questions echoing in his mind. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to know the answer to them.


	31. Telltale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes two brief and non-specific moments of a sexualized fantasy involving a character under the age of eighteen. Please feel free to skip this chapter if that is a problem for you.

The hardest part for Shizuo is seeing the bruising across Izaya’s face. It’s worst the day after the fight; the blow landed heaviest at the arch of the other’s cheekbone, and the next day the swelling Shizuo had seen starting under the featherlight touch of his fingertips has darkened to an angry purple-red and is so pronounced as to swell Izaya’s eye nearly shut on that side. Izaya seems unfazed by either pain or self-consciousness about the stares the angry red draws, and Kadota doesn’t say anything after the concession of one startled blink at the other’s appearance; Shizuo’s not entirely sure Shinra notices that anything is wrong at all. But Shizuo can’t stop thinking about it, even when he’s not watching the way Izaya’s smile tugs a little bit lopsided to avoid straining at the bruise mottling across his face, and he’s relieved to see the swelling has subsided by the second day, even if the color is fading out to an unpleasant brownish-green at the edges. By the third day Izaya’s smile is back to normal, any drag at the corner of his lips more from his usual show of secrecy than a need to spare his swollen cheek, and even with the side of his face marked with the yellow-green of lingering bruises Shizuo can stand to take a full breath when he sees it, when he has the color of healing to look at instead of the painful red of an active injury in front of him.

“Your face looks better,” he offers as Izaya takes the lead through the ever-darkened hallway of the Orihara household and up the stairs to his room. “Did anyone in your class ask about it?”

“Oh yes.” Izaya leaves the door to his bedroom open as he steps inside and swings his bag to the floor alongside his bed. “I told them I got into a lover’s quarrel with my abusive boyfriend.”

Shizuo’s whole body prickles with adrenaline, his breathing catching on the word _boyfriend_ in the moment before rationality can grab hold of him again and pull him back to reason and the lilt of teasing in Izaya’s voice. “You did not.”

“You’re getting better at that,” Izaya purrs, folding himself to the floor as he turns and flashes the edge of a smile up at Shizuo. His eyes are dark behind his lashes, the shadow of his gaze weighting his voice with a flirtatious edge Shizuo can feel like the premonition of lightning under his skin. “I won’t be able to lie about anything to you if you keep calling my bluff.”

“Sure you won’t,” Shizuo says, feeling resignation like a weight in his chest to pull his words flat and disbelieving. He has to look away from the shadow in Izaya’s eyes, has to turn himself away for the span of a breath just to remind himself that _he’s joking, he’s teasing you, he doesn’t mean it_. His bag drops to the floor, he follows it, and by the time his shoulders are pressing at the edge of Izaya’s mattress he’s almost stripped the bitterness from his voice. “You already lie about everything all the time, it’s not that hard to guess when you’re fucking with me.”

“Unless I start telling the truth.” Izaya is still watching Shizuo’s face, his lips still holding to the curve of that smile while his eyes promise sincerity Shizuo can’t let himself believe. He braces a hand behind himself, leans back at the support as he kicks his foot out over the space between them and presses his toes against Shizuo’s thigh. “You’d never figure it out, then.”

“You wouldn’t,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to still the distraction of Izaya’s foot against his leg with the weight of his hand atop the other’s ankle. Izaya angles his foot again, attempting motion he can’t achieve with Shizuo holding him still, and Shizuo pushes him away so Izaya’s leg lands at his calf instead of offering the strange intimacy of contact higher up his leg. “I don’t think you even remember what truth _is_ anymore.”

Izaya huffs a laugh. “Maybe not,” he says, curling his toes to press harder against Shizuo’s leg as his smile slips wider across his face. “It’s more fun this way, though, isn’t it?”

“For _you_ ,” Shizuo says, but he’s losing traction on his irritation, he can feel frustration disintegrating in the face of the tingling electricity spilling into his veins from Izaya’s foot against his leg. Izaya’s still watching him, his eyes shadowed and his smile soft, and for just a minute Shizuo lets himself imagine that they _are_ dating, that Izaya’s too-common joke is the reality of the situation and not just a story he likes to bring up to see the way it makes Shizuo blush. It’s hard to muster any force for the push Shizuo attempts at Izaya’s foot, and when Izaya’s only reaction is to kick his other leg out and weight Shizuo’s calf with both his feet at once Shizuo lets even the appearance of irritation subside as he relaxes against the side of the bed instead. Izaya’s feet are heavy at his leg, the weight of the contact is spreading warm into his veins; Shizuo can see the angle of the other’s ankle just against the hem of his pants, can trace the edge of bone just under skin with his gaze as Izaya shifts his foot into a more comfortable angle.

It’s always stunning to Shizuo, how fragile Izaya looks when he really thinks about it. He’s sure it must be true of everyone, that surely Kadota’s shoulders and Shinra’s nose would look just as blown-glass delicate if he were paying as close attention to either of them. But every time he tries to do a comparative study he just ends up distracted by the dip of shadow against Izaya’s collarbones, or the shift of laughter thrumming against the column of the other’s throat, or the careless grace of his fingers as he reaches for something over Shizuo’s lap. It’s too easy to see the possibility of damage on skin Shizuo knows he’s marked with accidental fingerprints in the past, too easy to remember how simple it is to cause pain when Izaya’s been wearing a bruise on his face like makeup for the last three days. Shizuo can remember too-clearly the crumpled line of Izaya’s body against the wall of the alley, how assumed unconsciousness undid all the taut elegance of Izaya’s limbs into a boneless slump that ran cold horror through Shizuo’s entire body like winter settling into his veins. It seems unreal to have Izaya here as he is, with nothing more than a fading bruise across his cheek to stand to that moment of unreal terror; but then, Shizuo knows better than to take anything Izaya says for granted, and just because he’s acting like he’s fine doesn’t mean Shizuo’s forgotten the way he limped as they made their way back out to the main street.

“Seriously,” he says aloud, voicing the words to the shift of Izaya’s feet against his leg before he stretches out to touch his fingers to stop their motion. “How bad is it?”

Izaya’s gaze doesn’t falter, his lashes don’t flicker. “You worry too much,” he says, and the words are smooth too, polished to such a bright sheen Shizuo can’t gain any traction of sincerity on them. “It’s just bruises.”

Shizuo frowns at the reminder, glancing at the asymmetrical color still clinging to Izaya’s cheek. “That wasn’t all they did.”

Izaya rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s _fine_ ,” he says, sitting up straighter as he reaches for the front of his jacket and pushes the button holding it shut free of the fabric. “Want to see?”

Shizuo doesn’t get a chance to answer. Izaya is letting his jacket fall open, is closing his fingers on a handful of his shirt and tugging it free of his pants, and then he’s pulling the fabric up and off his chest and Shizuo’s gaze is falling unavoidably to the expanse of bare skin in front of him. His heart skids, his breathing stalling on the suggestion that comes with Izaya stripping his shirt off; but then he sees the bruises, and the beginnings of startled arousal evaporate into a sudden rush of concern at the injury painted clear across the whole side of Izaya’s chest. He doesn’t mean to move, doesn’t think through his action as he twists towards Izaya to land on his knees and reach out; it’s only as his fingers come into contact with the other’s skin that he thinks to ease the force of his touch in consideration of the swelling still dark and vivid against Izaya’s side.

“This looks _awful_ ,” Shizuo says, his voice breaking in his throat as his thumb fits against the line of bruising that follows the bottom edge of Izaya’s ribcage. Even after days of healing Shizuo can see the stripes of color following the curve of bone under Izaya’s skin, even now the skin is still mottled into a purple so dark Shizuo can barely see the suggestion of red in it; he can’t guess what it must have looked like the first day, can hardly imagine how Izaya was able to stand, much less walk, with the amount of pain he must have been in. Shizuo’s hand looks very pale against the dark of the bruise under Izaya’s skin. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“It’s just bruises,” Izaya says, his voice strained in the back of his throat even though Shizuo is touching him as gently as he can, even though Shizuo’s fingers are barely weighting the color against the shift of the other’s breathing. “Nothing’s broken, it’s just sore.”

“You shouldn’t even be at school,” Shizuo tells him. His heart is pounding, his stomach is in a freefall of retroactive horror at how much worse the injury is than he originally believed; it truly is a miracle Izaya didn’t break a rib, given the abuse he must have taken to leave him with this lingering damage. Shizuo’s not completely sure he _didn’t_. “How are you _walking_ with this?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Izaya insists, adopting that offhand dismissal he always uses whenever it’s his physical health under discussion. “It’s fine, senpai, you’ve had worse without even noticing you were hurt.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Shizuo growls, lifting his head to glare at Izaya as if he can impress the value of the other’s safety into him through the raw intensity of his gaze. He wants to continue -- to suggest they go to a doctor to make sure nothing’s broken, maybe, or to extract a meaningless promise that Izaya will tell him the next time he’s hurt instead of pretending he’s fine -- but Izaya’s staring at him with an odd focus behind his eyes, something caught halfway between fear and hope pressed between the line of his lips. His skin is hot against the other’s hand, Shizuo realizes, he can feel how fast Izaya’s breathing is coming in the shift of the other’s chest under his palm, and they’re far closer than Shizuo had thought, close enough that when he breathes in he can taste the bitter bite of the smell of Izaya’s skin against his tongue. Shizuo’s attention flickers away from the dark of Izaya’s gaze on his, slides down to linger against the tension at the other’s mouth, and Izaya’s lashes flutter, his breathing catching hard against Shizuo’s hand. Shizuo’s heart is racing, his pulse thudding to frantic speed in his veins, and he can remember rejection on Izaya’s lips, can call up too-clearly the mocking lilt of _come on, Shizuo-senpai, haven’t you ever lied before?_ like a slap in the face to shatter the too-brief existence of blown-glass hope. That was a refusal, that was a rebuff shaped around the spill of a laugh; but Izaya’s not pulling away from him, and Izaya’s lips are softening and parting around what is unquestionably an invitation, and Shizuo is absolutely certain that if he leaned in to press his mouth against the give of Izaya’s that the other would melt under his touch as surely as the bite of his past-tense words would give way to meaninglessness. Shizuo takes a breath, his heart thudding over the structure of some half-formed request for permission to--

“Iza-nii!”

Shizuo’s attention fractures, cracking like glass under a too-tight grasp as adrenaline jolts all his body taut with shock. He twists back to look to the door, his heart racing so fast he can barely breathe to manage the acknowledgment of “ _Mairu_ ” he offers to the young girl standing framed in the open door to Izaya’s room.

“Hi there Shizu-nii.” Mairu steps forward out of the doorway, coming closer as Kururi appears in the shadow left at the entrance. “Are you corrupting our brother?”

Shizuo’s throat closes up on self-consciousness. “What?” he chokes out. “ _No_. What--” and then he realizes his hand is still pressed close against Izaya’s chest, that his fingers are still framing the rhythm of the other’s too-fast breathing. He pulls his hand away in a rush, his whole arm tingling with adrenaline from the contact, and Izaya lets his shirt fall back in place to hide bruised-dark skin.

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo attempts again, not sure what he’s denying but certain the heat burning across his cheeks is entirely undermining any claim he might make to innocence. “He was just--”

“You interrupted my seduction,” Izaya says, sounding so casual Shizuo almost believes the laughter under his voice, _would_ believe him were it not for the edge of tension that catches taut on the last word. Shizuo glances at him but Izaya’s not looking at him; his gaze is fixed on Mairu, any softness there was at his mouth entirely eclipsed by strain to match the clip of his voice. “Come on, do you want your big brother to die a virgin?” _That’s_ more than Shizuo was expecting, the words pulling a mental image too immediately to his imagination for him to resist; he can feel his face flame into heat, can feel his whole body going hot at the idea of Izaya’s bare skin under his hands, at the idea of Izaya arching up off the floor under him, at the idea of Izaya’s hands clinging to his shoulders and Izaya’s knees open around his hips and Izaya--

“You should have shut the door if you wanted privacy,” Mairu says, and Shizuo wrenches his glazed-over focus away from Izaya’s face and around to the twins in an attempt to forcibly drag himself back to reality. Mairu is looking from one of them to the other, appearing entirely unfazed and not in the least embarrassed. “You don’t have to stop. Keep doing what you were doing.”

“We weren’t doing _anything_ ,” Shizuo protests, his voice dragging to depths of telltale regret on the truth of the statement. They _could_ have been doing something, he thinks, he knows he didn’t imagine that softness at Izaya’s mouth, that shadow in his eyes, that-- “You shouldn’t be thinking about that kind of thing anyway, at your age.”

“ _You_ should be.” Mairu makes it sound like a judgment, like she’s talking to someone much younger than her instead of much older. “Why haven’t you taken Iza-nii to a love hotel or something yet?”

This time Shizuo can feel the flush of embarrassment separate from the burn of arousal through his veins, can feel his cheeks flaming to crimson as he goes hard inside his jeans, as his imagination suggests graceful fingers curling into his hair, Izaya’s voice breaking on a moan, the smell of licorice heavy against sweat-warm skin. “We are _not dating_ ,” he says, clinging to absolute honesty as the best defense against the heat swamping his coherency, against the desire heavy in his shoulders and trembling adrenaline into his wrists.

“Get out of my room,” Izaya snaps, offering salvation for which Shizuo is grateful even if he can’t bring himself to look at the other boy while his breathing is still rushing so hot in his lungs. “And shut the door on the way out, I don’t want to see you for another hour at least.”

“Aww,” Mairu whines. “But we’re _hungry_.”

“I’ll make dinner later. Get out and leave us alone.”

“Fine.” Kururi is pulling Mairu towards the door, apparently more willing to surrender to Izaya’s demand than her sister; Mairu is slower to move, requiring the other girl’s urging to act, and even in the doorway she pauses to call back, “Don’t have too much fun without us” before reaching for the handle to swing the weight of the door shut behind her.

There’s a moment of complete silence. Shizuo stays as he is, turned around to look at the closed door more because it seems the safest focal point than because there’s anything at all to look at. There’s only one thing in the room he’s really thinking about, and he doesn’t dare turn around to meet Izaya’s gaze until he has his heart rate and the heat in his blood tamped down to a more manageable level; the door is as good as anything else to fix his eyes on while he breathes himself back into neutral thoughts that have nothing to do with the smell of Izaya’s skin or the angle of his wrist or the part of his mouth. Finally Shizuo can manage a mostly-ordinary inhale, can turn around with something like a composed expression, and if he fixes his gaze on Izaya’s knees instead of his face it has more to do with the weight of his own embarrassment still hot across his cheeks than from a lack of self-restraint. He coughs, making an attempt at his normal voice before giving it up as hopeless and just offering the simplicity of “Sorry” rough on self-consciousness in the back of his throat.

“Are you taking responsibility for my sisters now?” Izaya asks. Shizuo glances up at him, looking through the weight of his hair at the other’s face; Izaya is smiling at him, his lopsided grin as familiar and well-practiced as the tilt of his head. “By all means, take them home if you want to play big brother, they’re far more of a pain than they’re worth.”

Shizuo wants to clarify. It’s not Mairu and Kururi his apology is for; it’s for everything else, for the careless weight of his touch against Izaya’s skin, for that moment of _almost_ so clear in the air he can still imagine the imprint of Izaya’s mouth again his. It’s for the way he snatched his touch away, the way he denied a romantic relationship so quickly, the way his blood went to fire in his veins at the off-hand suggestion from first Izaya and then Mairu. There’s so much he wants to apologize for, for not being there sooner to stop the blows that left Izaya so injured and for wanting so much more than the comfort of friendship between them and for pretending he _doesn’t_ want more, that he’s not aching in the very core of his being to have Izaya closer to him even than he is now. There’s too much, all of it tangling in on itself into incoherency; and then Izaya looks away, ducking his head as his cheeks color to pink not quite covered by the shadow of his hair falling in front of his face.

“Let’s play a game before we go and find some food for them.” Izaya reaches out for the shogi board pushed carelessly to the side when they came in; the motion looks almost casual, would pass for such if Shizuo couldn’t see the color across the other’s cheeks and the tense set of his mouth behind the shadow of his hair. But Shizuo _can_ see, can see the flush at Izaya’s skin and the tremor running along his hand and the way he’s avoiding meeting Shizuo’s gaze, and while Izaya is keeping his head ducked down and his face turned away Shizuo’s heart is beating the harder on the tentative, fragile outline of renewed hope inside his chest.

Izaya can insist he’s fine, can promise he’s healthy with the same casual dishonesty that draws his voice into a laugh over the word _boyfriend_ , over _dating_ , over _seduction_. But bruises aren’t the only thing Shizuo can see for himself, and it wasn’t Izaya’s injuries Shizuo was watching when the other’s lashes fluttered over a moment of anticipated surrender.

Shizuo wonders if Izaya’s heart is racing as hard as his is from that moment of _almost_.


	32. Waves

Izaya is beautiful in the sunlight.

Izaya is beautiful all the time, really, if Shizuo is honest with himself; the shadows that cast across his face late at night are just as kind to his features as the bright illumination of the summer sun is striking against the dark of his hair and the pale of his skin. But the light brings out the color of his eyes, and catches his smile flashing brighter even than it usually is, and with the sparkle of water droplets from the fountain they’re perched on catching against the ends of Izaya’s hair and against the feathery weight of his lashes, Shizuo finds even his best attempt at self-restraint can’t keep his focus from the other’s face. Izaya seems brighter with energy, too, as if the warmth in the air that has finally persuaded him to give up his everpresent jacket is humming electricity through his veins in place of blood; it was his idea to buy a handful of popsicles for the two of them as well as for Kadota and Shinra, and his suggestion to go wading through the clear water of the fountain, and his voice, now, that lilts out the edge of teasing as he says, “I can’t believe you’re eating your popsicle like that, senpai,” with the weight of his gaze on Shizuo leaving no question as to the target of the statement. “Don’t you know how to be normal at _all_?”

“What?” Shizuo blinks, shaking himself free of the distraction that comes with Izaya’s smile to look down at the half-finished popsicle in his hand. He can barely remember eating it at all, much less call up an awareness of anything unusual about his approach. “What are you talking about?”

“You bite it off the stick,” Izaya informs him. “Instead of being patient and waiting for it to melt.”

“Oh.” Shizuo considers his popsicle. “Yeah. That’s not _that_ weird. Why do you have to pick a fight about everything?”

“I’m just being honest.” Izaya kicks through the water to send the ruffle of a wave sloshing towards Shizuo’s ankles. The water splashes against his calf, spilling up to dampen the bottom edge of Shizuo’s jeans where they’re rolled up around his knees. “ _No one_ bites popsicles, senpai.”

“They do,” Shizuo returns, fighting back the smile that rises in irresistible response to the curve of Izaya’s mouth as the other smirks at him. “It’s not just me, don’t be ridiculous.”

“It _is_ unusual.” That from Shinra, wandering through the middle of the fountain with his pants rolled up and the hem of the lab coat he wears outside of school trailing in the water behind him. He doesn’t even look away from the splash of the fountain. “None of _us_ eat popsicles like that.”

“What else are you supposed to do?” Shizuo demands, looking back to Izaya since Shinra appears wholly engrossed in whatever it is he’s trying to do under the splash of the fountain over his head. Izaya hasn’t looked away, his smile hasn’t wavered; he’s still gazing at Shizuo with amusement catching at his lips, his lashes heavy with the laughter not quite making it past his throat to audibility. “They melt off the stick if you take too long with them.”

“It hurts to bite into them,” Izaya tells him, shifting his leg for another splash of water. Shizuo swings his foot wide to catch his knee against Izaya’s jeans and forestall the movement before it begins, and Izaya just smiles the wider at him.

“It doesn’t,” Shizuo protests, his mouth tugging at the threat of an answering smile as Izaya doesn’t pull back from the contact.

“It does,” Izaya lilts back. “It aches against your teeth and in the back of your head. Do you not feel that anymore than you feel broken bones?”

“It’s not _that_ weird.” Kadota, this time, speaking up from Shizuo’s other side without looking away from the idle attention he’s giving the passersby along the sidewalk in front of them. “Togusa bites popsicles too.”

“Your friend is a freak,” Izaya tells him. “My condolences, Dotachin.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kadota says with perfect equanimity in his voice.

“Too late,” Izaya purrs at him. When Shizuo looks back Izaya has a smirk clinging to his lips, is grinning wider at this evidence of the beginnings of an argument. “It fits you too well, you’ll never shake it now.”

“You don’t have a nickname for anyone else. Why are you so hung up on mine?”

“You’re right,” Izaya says, as if he’s never considered this idea before. He looks away from Kadota and out to Shinra, skipping over Shizuo like the other’s not even there; but Shizuo can see the show of consideration behind Izaya’s eyes, can see the deliberate act of dismissal as he looks away from Shinra and turns back to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “Maybe I _should_ have a nickname for Shizuo-senpai.”

“No,” Shizuo says, immediate rejection of this idea even though he knows full well that has never stopped Izaya before and is unlikely to do so now.

Izaya doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard the words. He looks away instead, turning his face up to the sky and creasing his forehead on thought as he brings his popsicle to his mouth, as he presses his lips against the cool and sucks at the ice with enough show to send a shiver of self-consciousness down Shizuo’s spine. He can see the popsicle melting against the heat of Izaya’s mouth, can follow the trickle of melting sugar to the corner of the other’s lips as Izaya draws the popsicle back and licks to catch the drip with his tongue. Shizuo’s skin prickles, his blood flushing into heat that has nothing to do with the weight of the sunshine glowing against his shoulders, but Izaya doesn’t look at him, doesn’t seem aware of the other’s reaction at all.

“Shizu-nii is too familial,” he says, aiming his words to the bright of the sky overhead. “Shizucchi is too hard to say, isn’t it?” He weights a hand against the edge of the fountain, cuts his gaze sideways under the shadow of his hair as he brings the popsicle to his mouth again; Shizuo can see the shading of Izaya’s lashes against his cheek, the weight of them enough to bar the sunlight from the color of his eyes. His lips are very red against the blue of the ice. Izaya draws the popsicle back, running his tongue over his lips as he smiles, and Shizuo can feel the heat in his veins surge so hot he’s sure it must be visible as a burn across his cheeks. “Simple is best, isn’t it, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo can feel his whole body go tense against the too-familiar nickname on Izaya’s lips. “If you call me Shizu-chan I will throw you into this fountain.”

“Don’t you like it?” Izaya lilts, his voice sultry-sweet and his eyes bright with laughter to match the edge of his grin. “I thought we were friends, Shizu-chan.”

“I’m serious,” Shizuo growls, taking a bite off his popsicle in a completely futile attempt to cool the burn of embarrassment in his veins, the shudder of reaction that runs through him every time he hears Izaya’s voice wrapping around those teasingly affectionate syllables. “Call me that again and you’ll regret it.”

Izaya slouches farther sideways against the brace of his hand, angles his head to the side as he smiles wider. “Will I?” he says, and Shizuo can hear the laughter under his voice, is moving to react even as Izaya drawls, “How can you be sure, Shi--” The water catches against Shizuo’s cupped fingers and sweeps up as he splashes it towards Izaya’s face to eclipse the other’s words with a wave of water directly into the taunting shadows of Izaya’s expression. Izaya doesn’t turn away, doesn’t even flinch; he just coughs a laugh, amusement spilling summer-bright past his lips as he lifts his hand from the edge of the fountain to push dripping hair back from his features, and Shizuo’s smiling too, affection winning out over his best attempt at frustration to suggest an idea to answer Izaya’s taunt in kind.

“What the fuck’s wrong with my _name_?” he demands as Izaya blinks his vision back into focus on Shizuo’s face. “You always make things more complicated than they need to be,” and he’s ready, he’s doing it, he can feel the shape of commitment in the sharp edges lying against his tongue. “Izaya.”

Izaya doesn’t even blink. He just holds Shizuo’s gaze, meeting the other’s stare head-on as he shifts his popsicle to his other hand and dips sticky fingers into the cool of the water by their feet. “If you insist,” he purrs, and Shizuo knows what’s coming, can taste it like heat in the air just before Izaya says “ _Shizuo_ ” and sends a wave of water up towards him. Shizuo ducks as the splash hits, lets the water spray cool over his hair and the back of his neck instead of across the front of his shirt, and he’s grinning too bright to try to hold back, happiness inordinately warm inside his chest as he shakes water from his hair and looks up to see the way Izaya is watching him, with his eyes soft and his smile sharp.

It’s a little thing, a tiny shift in the balance of the dynamic they’ve been sustaining for the past few years. But Shizuo’s still smiling, and Izaya’s still laughing even as Shizuo splashes another wave of water towards him, and Shizuo can taste Izaya’s name on his tongue like the effervescent cool of a popsicle in summertime heat.


	33. Peaceful

Izaya has gentle hands.

It seems unreasonable, when Shizuo thinks about it. Izaya wields his voice like a threat and his gaze like a knife, cuts with the blade of insults and laughter as easily as breathing; by all rights his hands should be as dangerous, his fingers should carry the weight of a punch or the danger of a scratch more easily than affection or care. But it’s Izaya’s hands that show the tremor of adrenaline first, that sometimes give him away before a shift of his expression or a thrum in his voice does, and in all Shizuo’s life he doesn’t think he’s felt anything as soothing as the drag of the other’s fingers running through the weight of his hair.

“You’re supposed to be studying for history,” Izaya tells him, the words stripped down to gentleness to match the curl of his hold against the pale of Shizuo’s hair. He’s lying against Shizuo’s bed, angled over the sheets in a space-filling position that looks possessive, that makes the furniture looks like it belongs to him more than to Shizuo, and Shizuo has no motivation and less reason to try to evict him.

“You’re distracting me,” Shizuo informs him, skirting the edge of enough truth without tipping over the lip of too-much into the confessional honesty neither of them have quite crossed into yet. His eyelids are going heavy, his expression falling slack with the pleasure of Izaya’s fingertips dragging over his scalp; he doesn’t try to compose it, doesn’t try to strip the weight of satisfaction from his voice when he speaks. There’s only so far he’s willing to go for the sake of deniability. “I can’t focus when you’re doing that.”

“You don’t have much focus at all, do you?” Izaya teases, but he’s smiling, Shizuo can hear the expression warm in the other’s voice. Izaya’s hand drags friction over the back of Shizuo’s head and Shizuo lets himself tip sideways to the force, lets the surrender of his motion speak to the physical pleasure that comes with the contact. “You’ll never get into university with a work ethic like that.”

Shizuo huffs amusement, laughter falling easy from the purr of pleasure threatening to make itself audible as a groan in place of his every exhale. “Who said I was going to university? I’m going to start working once I graduate high school.”

“Oh?” Izaya drawls. His touch slides down Shizuo’s hair, his hand fitting under the weight of bleached-yellow against the back of the other’s neck; Shizuo lets his head fall forward to offer his skin for the press of Izaya’s palm warm against him. “And here I thought you were going to become a doctor like Shinra.”

Shizuo smiles without opening his eyes. “You are such a liar.” Izaya’s fingers tense at his skin, slide up to push through the weight of his hair again; Shizuo can feel the friction of the other’s touch purr heat down the whole length of his spine. “Do you even know how to tell the truth anymore?”

“Truth is subjective,” Izaya informs him, tightening his fingers into almost-a-fist at Shizuo’s hair and tugging gentle sensation over the other’s scalp. Shizuo does groan at that, a low note of pleasure at the friction, and Izaya huffs a laugh before his hold eases and he returns to idly feathering his fingers through Shizuo’s hair. “It all comes down to how you interpret reality.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo growls, the resonance in his chest unfolding into the shadow of teasing in his throat. “And you’re objectively a brat.”

Izaya hums amusement. “Sweet talk will get you anything you want from me,” he says, lilting the words around the shape of flirtation, and for a moment Shizuo’s chest goes tight on possibility, his cheeks go warm on the memory of his hand against the dark-bruised purple of Izaya’s chest, of Izaya’s sharp-edged mouth going soft with preemptive surrender. This is meant as a joke, he knows, is meant as part and parcel of Izaya’s perpetual not-quite serious suggestiveness; but Shizuo wonders now, like he always wonders, what Izaya would do if he turned around, if he slid free from the other’s touch and reached out to wind his fingers into dark hair instead, if he pulled Izaya in to press his mouth to the curve of the other’s smile. Would Izaya balk, would he flinch back, would he shove at Shizuo’s shoulder until the other let him free? Or would he melt, would he go warm and pliant and breathless the way Shizuo’s imagination sometimes paints him, the way his teasing tone seems to be offering?

Shizuo doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t turn around. He never does. He doesn’t know what Izaya would do, can’t tell if that teasing is sincere or purely mocking; and it’s enough, he thinks, to have Izaya like this, in his bed and sprawling across his sheets, winding elegant fingers into Shizuo’s hair with the careless grace that always strikes Shizuo so breathlessly hot with answering adrenaline. Right now there’s none of the strain of painful want that steals Shizuo’s calm at other times, none of the ache of uncertainty that weights at his chest until he has to struggle to fill his lungs with oxygen; there’s just the pleasure of Izaya’s company, the soft purr of his voice spilling warm through Shizuo’s thoughts and his touch drawing gentle through Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo thinks he could be happy like this forever, just sitting still and quiet on his bedroom floor with Izaya’s hands ruffling the pale strands of his hair. But he can’t stay here forever, can’t keep Izaya safe with him any more than he can delay the inevitable pressure of graduation that will pull him into an as-yet-unknown job and leave Izaya alone to finish out another year of school before he graduates and goes on to...Shizuo doesn’t know what, doesn’t know if Izaya will stay in Ikebukuro or leave, doesn’t know if he’ll find a job of his own or if he’ll be leaving for some unknown university in some unknown city. Shizuo hasn’t thought of it before, hasn’t before considered the possibility of Izaya graduating, of Izaya leaving, of Izaya distant from him more than the few familiar streets that link their family homes, and for a moment the idea is more than he can bear, it steals his breath and stalls his thoughts and leaves him tense and trembling with adrenaline expecting a fight with some opponent that doesn’t exist. There’s nothing to fight against, here, nothing but the weight of the unknown future bearing down on him, and so Shizuo opens his eyes, and takes a breath, and asks, “What are you going to do?” with so much strain in his voice he can hear the effort clear on the sound of the words in the air. “After graduation.”

“I’m going to keep going to classes, mostly.” Izaya’s fingers wander over Shizuo’s scalp, tighten and pull the weight of the other’s hair back over his ear. “I’ll pine for you when I think about it.”

Shizuo twists under Izaya’s touch, reaching back to push gently against the other’s leg as Izaya laughs and rolls back over the bed to dodge the force. “Not _my_ graduation. You know what I mean.”

Izaya falls back over the bed, sprawling wide over the sheets as he reaches up to touch his fingertips to the ends of Shizuo’s hair again. He’s not looking at Shizuo; with his focus elsewhere Shizuo can watch him unobserved, can see the way Izaya’s eyes go soft and his mouth curves to gentleness with the distraction of his idle movement. “More of what I’ve been doing,” he says, casually, like the words have nothing to do with either of their futures. “I have a reputation with the yakuza, now, they rely on me for information.”

“That’s not something to be proud of” but Shizuo’s still feeling the weight against his chest ease, still feeling that brief moment of panic fading with the off-hand reassurance of Izaya’s words. “You’re not going to go to university, then?”

“Mm.” Izaya’s still watching his fingers; when he shifts his hand drags through Shizuo’s hair, his fingertips finding their way through the weight of the strands and back to press against Shizuo’s scalp. “No.” His attention flickers down again, his gaze catches Shizuo’s; his mouth manages a smile but his eyes are dark with sincerity. “Why, Shizuo, worried I was going to run off to Shinjuku and you’d never see me again?”

Shizuo can feel his face starting to burn to heat at this too-close hit. “Shut up,” he growls, and twists away before Izaya can read the relief in the smile that pulls at his mouth, before the blush across his cheeks gives away the shudder of reaction that hits him every time Izaya uses his name unadorned with its usual honorific. “Good riddance if you did.”

“You’d miss me,” Izaya purrs, his fingers winding deeper into Shizuo’s hair and drawing it back and away from the other’s face as he shifts over the mattress. “What would you do if you didn’t have me around to worry about all the time?”

Shizuo’s mouth twists, pulling on a smile in spite of the self-consciousness still glowing hot across his cheeks, and when he speaks it’s weighted with the familiar rhythm of teasing. “Enjoy my life a lot more, I bet.”

“You wouldn’t,” Izaya tells him, and Shizuo knows that to be too true for him to protest. “You’d be bored, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.” Izaya’s nails dig in against Shizuo’s scalp and drag sensation back over the other’s head, and Shizuo huffs a breath of satisfaction again, the immediate physical pleasure of the friction overriding his embarrassment and unfastening the strain across his shoulders. He leans back against the edge of the bed, lets the mattress take the weight of his body, and Izaya’s fingers curl in against his hair to tug gentle pressure over his scalp again, down low, where dark is growing out under the yellow. “You’d have to bleach your hair yourself.”

“I have to do that anyway.” Shizuo’s eyes are falling shut again; his words are coming easy over his tongue, forming themselves from the purr of comfort radiating along his spine in answer to Izaya’s touch in his hair. “Since you have plans this weekend.”

“I never said I had plans,” Izaya says immediately. “I was speaking in hypotheticals. You should learn to listen when people talk, Shizuo.”

Shizuo smiles. “There’s no point with you,” he says, the words sharp but his tone too warm to even attempt a denial of the affection on his tongue. Izaya’s fingers catch at his forehead to pull the hair back from his face and Shizuo lets his head tilt back until his hair is brushing the bed behind his shoulders. He knows he looks relaxed, knows his expression must look drowsy on the comfort offered by Izaya’s touch pulling through his hair, but he doesn’t try to compose it any more than he tries to disguise the soft of the affectionate indulgence in his voice when he speaks. “Not when half of what you say is nonsense anyway.”

“You’re getting it now,” is all Izaya says, his voice carrying the same edge of laughter it ever does; but his fingers are still wandering through Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo’s skin is still prickling with the friction, and when Shizuo says “Sure” it lacks any irritation at all.

He wouldn’t mind staying with Izaya like this forever.


	34. Certainty

“Really, Shizuo.” Izaya is purring the words, drawling over them with as much satisfaction as if they’re made of sugar, as if he’s savouring the flavor of them against his tongue as he looks up through his lashes at Shizuo on the other side of the kotatsu. “If you had told me it was going to be just us I would have gotten dressed up for the occasion.”

Shizuo’s mouth twitches, his lips fighting with a smile as his cheeks fight with a flush of embarrassment. “Shut up,” he tells Izaya. “You’re not the only one I invited. Everyone else had plans.” It’s not like he minds -- there are few things Shizuo can think of that he’d rather do than spend the whole of his Christmas with just Izaya for company -- but he can’t figure out how to match Izaya’s off-hand flirtation, not with sincerity sticking so rough in his throat, so he leaves the conclusion unstated and lets the straightforward part of his reason stand in for the whole.

“What a good thing for you I was available.” Izaya reaches out for the dish of Go stones next to him and picks one up to toy with at the tips of his fingers. “Otherwise you’d have to play Go against yourself.”

“It’d be more fun,” Shizuo says, fully aware that his smile is undoing any claims to honesty this sentence might make. “I might actually win sometimes, that way.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Izaya tells him, setting his piece down with every appearance of carelessness. Shizuo is sure without looking that it’s a better move than he would have made. “If you practiced more you could at least put up a better fight.”

Shizuo snorts. “Like you practice. All you ever do is play that crazy game you made up for yourself, that doesn’t make you better at Go proper.”

Izaya flutters his lashes and lifts his chin into a put-upon haughtiness. “Some of us have an inborn talent,” he declares, and Shizuo coughs another laugh as Izaya’s mouth threatens a smile. “And you’re not that hard to beat.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, the response more habitual than sincere, and Izaya’s smile breaks free to sparkle bright behind his eyes as Shizuo reaches for another piece.

“Who else did you invite that couldn’t make it?” he wants to know as Shizuo looks down to place his piece with only half his attention on the board in front of him. “You did know Shinra finally got Celty to agree to a date, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” Shizuo leans back from the board to let Izaya takes his next move. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it for three days, it’d be difficult to _not_ know. Kadota had plans with Togusa already.” He shifts his foot under the kotatsu where it’s pressed close against Izaya’s hip, tipping in closer to gain an extra purr of pleasant friction up his spine at the contact. “I thought Kasuka might be around, but he left for a party with a bunch of his friends an hour ago.”

“Mm.” Izaya stretches a hand out towards his pieces and picks one up between the very tips of his fingers. “How many dates did he get asked out on this year?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know. A dozen, at least, that he mentioned.”

Izaya glances across the table at him, his mouth quirking onto a smile. “You sound so disappointed,” he purrs. “Jealous that your little brother is so much more popular than you are?”

Shizuo rocks his foot in against Izaya’s hip again. “Why would I be jealous?”

Izaya’s smile pulls wider, going lopsided against the angle of his lips. “He has so many options,” he says, pressing his fingertips against the piece he’s holding so it pivots under the weight of his touch. Shizuo can see the tension along Izaya’s fingers as he moves, can track the elegant flex of the other’s hand as he toys with the piece; the shift of the motion holds his attention far more than the subject Izaya is lilting over as he goes on. “A dozen girls asking him out and lots of parties to choose from, if he doesn’t feel like settling down to just one admirer.” Izaya’s fingers twist, the Go stone spins against his hold. “And you’re at home with only your best friend for company.”

Shizuo’s laugh comes easy, responding more to the absurdity in Izaya’s implication that he would rather be somewhere else than the other’s words. “Yeah,” he says, letting the reply stretch long with sarcasm as he keeps watching Izaya play with the Go stone. “I’m really missing out, you know how crazy all the girls at school are about me.”

Shizuo’s not thinking about his words at all. He’s amused by the idea, the laughter in his voice more from the simple pleasure of Izaya’s company and delight at the graceful motions he’s making with the Go piece than anything to do with the subject at hand. But Izaya’s motion stills, his fingers stalling to inaction against the stone, and when he says “You could have a girlfriend” there’s so much bite on the words that Shizuo feels them like a blow, as clearly as if Izaya had reached across the kotatsu and slapped him. Izaya drops the piece from his fingertips, catches it into a fist, and Shizuo can see the strain written into the white of Izaya’s knuckles under his skin even before the other snaps, “Not everyone at school is terrified of you, even with your hair.”

Shizuo looks up. Izaya’s glaring at him from across the table, his forehead creased and eyes crackling with anger for something Shizuo doesn’t understand; he looks furious, looks like he’s ready to storm out of the room if Shizuo says the wrong thing. Shizuo has no idea what he’s done, no idea what has set Izaya off into such an abrupt surge of aggression; but Izaya’s mouth is pulling into a frown, his lip trembling on something too fragile to be entirely anger, and Shizuo is still staring at the other’s expression and trying to make sense of it when Izaya tips his head down to drop the shadow of his hair between them like a wall.

Shizuo blinks hard, takes a breath of air suddenly gone cold with unexplained tension. Izaya’s shoulders are hunching over the Go board in front of them, his head tipped so far forward Shizuo can’t even see the tremor at his mouth anymore for the weight of his hair.

“They should be,” he offers, trying honesty as a stopgap while he tries to backtrack over the last few minutes of conversation and figure out what is so ruffling Izaya’s composure. “I could lose my temper and hurt someone without even trying.”

“You haven’t hurt me,” Izaya snaps, throwing the words like a conclusive counterargument to fact.

Shizuo can feel his jaw set, can feel adrenaline starting to crackle into his veins with irritable impatience for Izaya’s utterly inexplicable mood shift, for this patently obvious statement that has no bearing at all on Shizuo’s interactions with the rest of the world. “Of course I haven’t,” he growls. “You’re--”

 _You_ , his mind offers, finishing the statement with an inanity that nonetheless carries everything that Shizuo needs to say in one word. _You’re special. You’re mine_. _You’re Izaya_. They’re all pointless, all phrases that mean nothing in speech and everything to Shizuo, all burdened with enough affection to make them as good as a confession against his lips. He can’t find his voice, can’t find enough meaning in language to carry everything that Izaya is to him, everything that makes a bruise at Izaya’s skin ache more than one on his own would, and while Shizuo’s still reaching for coherency Izaya’s chin lifts, just barely, just by enough for Shizuo to see the other looking up at him from behind his hair. His mouth is set, now, the crease at his forehead evaporated to leave just the dark weight of attention behind his eyes, and Shizuo knows that he’s never going to be able to find the words he needs with Izaya’s stare offering something between a dare and a plea for the rest of his sentence. He looks away instead, following Izaya’s lead in retreating behind his hair, and when he finally manages “Different,” it feels weak even on his tongue and tastes like failure in the back of his throat. He can feel his cheeks burning, can feel his shoulders hunching; when he reaches for his teacup it’s more for something to do with the shiver of tension in his body than from any real desire for the liquid.

“You could have one too,” he says, struggling to restart the conversation while his heart sinks, while his mind wails protest at the lost opportunity for honesty. It’s that bitterness as much as true jealousy that goes sour on his tongue, that drags the words “You get confessions every week” so rough and raw in the back of his throat.

“I do,” Izaya says. He sounds distant, detached; whatever emotion was on his voice before is gone, now, painted over with the usual facade of uncaring that twists the knot in Shizuo’s chest the tighter. “I love all of them, Shizuo, just like I love all humanity.” There’s a _click_ against the Go board, the sound of Izaya dropping the piece in his hand into place; Shizuo barely glances to see how it fits into the pattern of the game, can’t spare any attention at all for the distraction of friendly competition when his breathing is so tangled on self-deprecation and jealous want at once. “I couldn’t possibly choose just one human to love more than the others. That wouldn’t be fair to the rest.”

Shizuo feels the words like the rejection they are, like a door slamming shut in his face to shove back the ever-tentative hope in him of more, of reciprocation, of a future so hazy with uncertainty he can’t bring himself to let it take shape even in imagination. He fixes his gaze on the Go board, lets his shoulders hunch in like they can protect him from the bitter implication on Izaya’s words, and when he says “Right,” he can hear the audible hurt even as the word leaves his lips. There’s pressure against his chest, the weight of violence hissing for expression in some form on someone, and Shizuo keeps talking, knowing that his disappointment must be clear in his throat but with self-deprecation too vicious in his thoughts to stall out the words and grant himself even an attempt at neutrality. “I should have remembered.”

“You should have,” Izaya says, still with that far-off tone like he’s speaking from a great height, like he’s looking down on Shizuo from such a distance that he doesn’t hear the emotion dragging Shizuo’s words to roughness, that he doesn’t see the misery dragging Shizuo’s mouth to a frown. Shizuo shuts his eyes, grimacing against the ache in his chest; and then Izaya goes on, offering words without a trace of mockery anywhere in his voice. “Good thing I can make exceptions for monsters.”

Shizuo’s breathing rushes out of him all at once. He opens his eyes, lifts his head; but Izaya’s looking down at the Go board again, his mouth set and fingers pressing against one of the pieces. He looks almost calm, almost passes for composed; but his breathing is catching, his fingers are trembling, and as Shizuo stares at him his hold on the piece slips to skid it off-center and an inch across the board. Izaya’s going red, his cheeks gaining color the longer Shizuo stares at him, and Shizuo’s sure, he’s _sure_ , there’s no other way to frame that sentence but with the _love_ so off-hand on Izaya’s lips a moment before. Shizuo’s heart is racing, disappointment swept aside with the sudden force of certainty, and Izaya’s still not looking at him but he’s going crimson, now, he’s ducking his head down farther and taking a desperate breath and Shizuo can’t fill his lungs, he can’t think clearly but it doesn’t matter, he’s opening his mouth anyway, words are pushing at his throat and spilling over his tongue and he’s going to say it, he’s going to tell him, Izaya’s given him all the pieces of a confession and Shizuo _has_ to say it, his racing heart won’t let him be silent.

“Izaya--”

“I mean,” Izaya gasps, blurting the words over Shizuo’s with a haste like he’s drowning, like he must speak now or die. “It’d be hard to not even have a best friend.” He reaches out to push against the stones on the Go board, though his hand is shaking so badly Shizuo can’t tell if he’s trying to realign them or just push them more off-center. “I’d have to go back to playing Go against myself, you know.”

Shizuo can’t answer for a moment. His mouth is full of his unspoken confession, _I love you_ heavy like bitter chocolate melting over his tongue. But Izaya’s shoulders are hunching forward over the kotatsu, and his breathing is catching loud in the space between them, and Shizuo doesn’t know what it is he’s so afraid of but he doesn’t need to understand to see the signs of panic trembling through every line of Izaya’s body. Honesty is weighting on his tongue and clenching like a fist around his heart; but Izaya is taut with fear of what Shizuo might say, looking more terrified now than he ever has when facing down the other’s strength, and so Shizuo swallows back the weight of his words, and takes a breath to fill his aching lungs, and says “Ah,” as if Izaya’s statement conveyed anything at all other than sudden, irrational panic. “Right.” Izaya stays still, silent as if he’s waiting for a mortal blow to fall, and Shizuo casts about for another topic, for something to offer to the other as proof that he’s backing away from the apparent danger of the subject at hand. His gaze drops to the board, to Izaya’s fingers still bracing the misplaced stones, and when he opens his mouth it’s to say “That isn’t where those pieces were” with as much forced casualness as he can muster for the words.

It doesn’t feel like enough. It feels forced, desperate, transparent even to his own ears. But Izaya’s shoulders ease, and when he says “Oh?” his voice is clear enough to speak to his relief even before he lifts his head to smile up at Shizuo with something like his usual energy. “Are you trying to cheat to gain the upper hand, now?”

It’s a stupid subject change. In another situation Shizuo would frown at the attempt, would push back to force them onto their previous track. But Izaya is smiling again, his eyes bright and his mouth curving with the energy of relieved tension, and so Shizuo lets the point stand, protests “I’m not cheating” with as much force as if he actually cares about defending himself from this baseless accusation.

It’s surrender, Shizuo knows, it’s yet another failure to give voice to the affection that always glows sunbright in his veins whenever Izaya is around. But he saw the panic in Izaya’s shoulders and trembling against his lips, and even if it’s a loss he thinks it’s worth it to have the other’s teasing smile back in place and bright behind his eyes. There’s certainty pressing against his ribcage, now, assurance of Izaya’s feelings tangling inextricably with his own, and Shizuo might not understand why Izaya is so afraid of putting voice to them but he knows what he heard, and no amount of changing the subject is going to shake that awareness now that he has it.

If Izaya reciprocates any part of Shizuo’s feelings, Shizuo will wait as long as the other needs before he admits it.


	35. Hold

Izaya’s watching when Shizuo graduates.

Shizuo hadn’t been completely sure he would be. They’ve been talking around it for weeks, not-mentioning the upcoming ceremony with an attention that only increased in focus as the announcements at school became more common; even Shinra seems to have picked up on the tension that has been settling into Izaya’s spine like it’s making itself a home for the summer and refrains from too much exuberance about Celty’s planned attendance at the ceremony over the few lunchtimes they have left to spend together. Izaya met Shizuo on the walk to school the morning of as usual, chattered aimlessly about random subjects over the entire distance, and Shizuo heard nothing of the meaning of Izaya’s words for how closely he was listening to the strain under the other’s voice as he spoke.

They separate as soon as they’re past the gates, Shizuo swept off into the preparations for the official ceremony and Izaya left to fall in with the other underclassmen, and Shizuo is sure that tension audible under Izaya’s voice will carry him off to the rooftop, or past the front gates completely, to somewhere he can avoid the reality of Shizuo’s graduation with the dexterity he is always so quick to display when dodging unpleasant situations. Shizuo doesn’t see him in the hall for the ceremony when he attempts a few surreptitious glances, either in the rows of second-years or standing in the back along with the few latecomers, and by the time he’s making his way to the front of the room to receive his diploma he’s sure Izaya’s not there at all, is already trying to figure out the first place to look for him after they’re released. But there’s a shiver along his spine as he climbs the steps to the stage, a prickle of self-consciousness like the stage fright he’s never felt before, and as he takes his diploma and turns out to face the crowd it’s not Kadota’s easy smile or Shinra’s enthusiastic clapping he sees first but Izaya, standing far in the back of the room where the corner of the wall hid him from Shizuo’s earlier consideration. He’s not smiling, he’s not clapping; he’s just staring, watching Shizuo with as much fixed attention in his eyes as if the other is likely to evaporate if Izaya lets his focus go for so much as the span of a heartbeat. Shizuo’s heart skids, his breathing catches, and then he has to turn and return back down the stairs to make space for the next graduate.

His skin is still tingling with the weight of Izaya’s gaze when he sits back down, his breathing still coming faster, and even knowing he should be watching the stage and that he won’t be able to see Izaya anyway doesn’t stop him from looking back over his shoulder in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the other boy. The rest of the ceremony stretches long, with the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat to drag the minutes endless, and then they’re released from their seats and Shizuo is turning for the far corner of the hall before he can think. He’s ready to bolt for the shadows, ready to push his way through the crowd to catch Izaya before he disappears again; but Kadota and Shinra catch him first, Kadota grinning congratulations and Shinra gesturing wildly in an attempt to get more of Celty’s attention than they already have. Shizuo can’t see Izaya any more at all, can’t even make an attempt at moving to find him, and Kadota’s gripping at his shoulder and saying “Congratulations” in the low rumble that always manages to cut through the higher range of sound offered by a crowd. “We did it.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Shinra chirps, achieving through volume what Kadota manages by tone. “Not that I’m finished with school yet, I’ve still got some training ahead of me, but it’s still a milestone to be celebrated. Celty!” And he’s waving again, flailing an arm through the air and beaming as Celty approaches swathed in a hat and a scarf that cast everything above her neck entirely into shadow.

“He’s never going to learn any restraint,” Kadota sighs.

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “If he hasn’t yet…”

“How does adulthood feel, Shizuo-senpai?”

The voice is sharp, carrying clear over the murmur of the crowd and even Shinra’s enthusiastic greeting as Celty comes forward into range of a hug. Shizuo’s turning at the first word, his attention pulled irresistibly sideways by that tone, and Izaya’s standing just behind him, his hands in his pockets and his mouth fixed into a lopsided smile that stays firmly at his lips without touching his eyes.

“Hey,” Kadota says, and “Orihara-kun!” Shinra calls, but “Izaya,” Shizuo breathes, all the tension in his chest rushing out of him on the sound, and it’s Shizuo that Izaya looks at, Shizuo who gets the first glance from those unsmiling eyes.

“Senpai,” Izaya says, and then, with his smile going wider as if it’s cracking open, “I guess I shouldn’t call you that anymore, huh?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shizuo says, and he’s reaching out without thinking, his touch drawn by the tension straining against Izaya’s shoulders as clearly as it is laid behind those dark eyes. His arm fits around Izaya’s shoulders as well as it ever has, as comfortably as if it was made to rest there, and when he pulls Izaya stumbles forward in submission to the force the same as he always does. “Nothing’s different.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that,” Izaya tells him, so lightly Shizuo would believe the show of uncaring tugging a smile at the other’s mouth if he couldn’t feel the tension across Izaya’s shoulders under his arm. “I still have a whole year to get through and you’re already telling me graduation is pointless?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo protests, but he doesn’t have a good follow-up for what he _does_ mean, so he lets it stand at that, contenting himself instead with tightening his hold against Izaya’s far shoulder so he can pull the other in close against his side, like he’s trying to fit the angle of Izaya’s body against the thud of his heart in his chest. “I didn’t think you were going to be here.”

“Of course I was going to watch,” Izaya says, his voice only a little bit muffled by the way he has his head turned in against Shizuo’s shoulder. “I couldn’t miss my senpai’s high school graduation.”

Shizuo can’t see Izaya’s face. The dark of the other’s hair is falling over his eyes, the angle of the way they’re standing together hiding any expression that might be clinging to his lips. Even his voice is flat, aiming for a taunt but lacking the energy to actually achieve it. Still, Shizuo keeps looking at the top of Izaya’s head, keeps his arm around the other’s shoulders, and when he speaks it’s to say, “I’ll be here for yours,” as quietly as he can manage to keep the words just between the two of them. Izaya’s shoulders tense, his spine stiffening under the weight of Shizuo’s arm, but he doesn’t step away, and Shizuo doesn’t let his hold ease. “Next year.”

“That’s easy for you to say now,” Izaya says, still without lifting his head and with his voice odd and strained on something Shizuo can’t read from behind the barrier of his hair. “That’s a whole year away, how can you be so sure of yourself?”

“I will,” Shizuo says, and lets his hold on Izaya’s shoulder go to slide his hand up so he can press his fingers into the dark of the other’s hair. Izaya takes a breath, loud enough that Shizuo can hear it even against his jacket, but when Shizuo pulls Izaya tips sideways in surrender to the force, leaning in until his head is pressed hard against Shizuo’s shoulder. Shizuo can feel his heart pounding in his chest, pride and loss and anxious affection all tangling together into a single too-fast rhythm coming hard under the pale of his coat. He wonders if Izaya can hear it, wonders if Izaya will be able to pick out the outline of infatuation from the pattern, wonders if Izaya would say anything even if he did. “It’s only a year, Izaya.”

For a moment Izaya doesn’t move, to shift or to speak or even to huff a laugh against Shizuo’s coat. Then he lifts his hand, just one, freeing his fingers from where they’ve been pressed hard between his hip and Shizuo’s; Shizuo can feel the shift against him, can feel the proof of the action a moment before Izaya’s fingertips touch the bottom edge of his jacket and Izaya’s hand curls in hard against the last inch of the hem on the pale blue coat. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t lift his head; but his hand tightens into a fist, his hold going unbreakable against Shizuo’s jacket, and Shizuo can feel the weight of that hold tangle as close around his heart as Izaya’s fingers are caught around his clothes.

Shizuo doesn’t pull away. It would take a lot more than a year to undo the hold Izaya has on him, even if he wanted to try.


	36. Unexpected

It’s easier to find a job than Shizuo expected it would be.

He was ready for weeks of searching, of wading through phone calls and interviews and endless rejections before he found a position requiring skills he has along with a tolerance for the implications of the bleached-blond hair he has maintained since high school began. He tells himself he’s ready for this, that he’s braced himself for weeks and maybe months of unrewarded effort; but he only makes it through one brief interview and subsequent rejection before the second location he asks, with a posting in the window for Help Needed in clean printed letters, offers him a job on the spot, almost for the asking. Shizuo is sure at first there must be some mistake, tries to explain that he has no experience with customer service and none at all with drinking, much less the bartending they seem to be looking for; but the man on the other side of the table just smiles, and waves aside Shizuo’s protests with promises of training and patience, and Shizuo leaves with a folded uniform under his arm and a training schedule that begins the next day.

Shizuo had hoped, during the walk back home and relaying the good news to his mother’s surprise and Kasuka’s unruffled acceptance, that he might turn out to have some as-yet-untapped skill at bartending, that perhaps he’ll pick up the bottles and produce something amazing at his first attempt. This turns out to be very nearly the opposite of the case. Shizuo has no experience with alcohol and no real way to learn anything like a taste for it, with his age still preventing him from trying any of the drinks he actually makes and the proportions of the recipes he’s meant to memorize eluding him even with someone talking him through the process as he works. He’s more than half-expecting to be fired every hour of his first day, as his lack of ability becomes abundantly clear to both himself and his supervisor; but he’s told to come back the next day, and the next, and if he spends more time practicing drink recipes than anything else this doesn’t seem to be of any great concern to his new employer. Shizuo finds this inexplicable, can’t make any sense out of the situation even as the week continues and he keeps arriving to fumble his way through another several hours of training; but he doesn’t get fired, and by the middle of the week he’s fairly sure he’s not going to be, in spite of his demonstrated lack of skills for his place of employment. It’s a comfort of sorts, even if Shizuo can’t figure out why he remains employed at this particular location, and it gives him something to do with the hours of his day other than fret over what Izaya is or isn’t doing all alone at high school. It’s vaguely pleasant to lose himself in running through drink recipes in his head, to work through the actual process of mixing them in the lulls between the rare afternoon customer, and Shizuo finds himself falling into a rhythm of thought to match his actions during the long hours of his training shifts.

He’s in the middle of a quiet period right now. Early afternoon is always peaceful, with no one to fill seats at the bar except for the bare handful of well-dressed men and women who settle into booths with drinks they barely touch and never complain about, no matter how terribly Shizuo confuses the given recipe. There’s no one at the bar counter at all, right now, just the shadow of the man lingering at the door to keep out any underage customers, and Shizuo is free to duck his head and lose himself to the pattern of working through one of the more complicated recipes that he is still struggling to remember even in part. It’s soothing, in a way, an easy distraction of motion and reaching for half-forgotten details that leaves the back of his mind free to wander over far more familiar routes, to backtrack to the familiarity of Raijin and the weight of a blue coat around narrow shoulders, to call up the cut of Izaya’s smile and the edge on his laugh like the echo of some favorite song in Shizuo’s mind. It makes his chest ache, makes his heart pound the faster in the chest, and his hands are still moving but his thoughts are entirely absent from his work, now, they’re trailing over familiar concerns and half-formed panic that only carries the more weight for its formlessness, and then there’s a voice, “Imagine meeting you in a place like this” with so much shadowed-over flirtation on the words Shizuo wouldn’t recognize the tone under them if it were from anyone other than exactly who it is.

His head jerks up at once, his attention skidding up in a reaction as immediate as it is involuntary. There’s no way it can be -- but it is, of course it is, Shizuo would never mistake anyone else’s voice for Izaya’s, and there he is himself, elbows weighting at the edge of the bar counter and smile so bright it strikes sparks off the dark of his eyes.

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo blurts, shock giving itself voice before he can even attempt to catch back the startled warmth in his tone. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Izaya’s smile tugs wider at the corner of his mouth, showing a flash of teeth white in the dim of the bar. “Aren’t you glad to see me?” he asks instead of answering, his lashes fluttering into weight as Shizuo stares at him. “It’s been days, I expected you to be pining for the pleasure of my company at this point.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Shizuo informs him while his heart races itself into glowing delight at the unexpected pleasure of Izaya here, in front of him, close enough for Shizuo to catch the taste of licorice on his tongue when he breathes in. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“It’s a holiday.”

Shizuo frowns. “It is not.”

“It is for me.” Izaya slides his arm across the counter and braces himself against the middle so he can tip forward against the support and lean over to look down at the far side where Shizuo is standing; for just a moment his hair is close enough for Shizuo to see the individual strands as they slide with the motion, to see the shift of color catch into illumination even under the dim gold of the lighting in the bar. “What are you doing, Shizuo, that looks like you’re trying to poison someone.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says without looking down at the ruined drink in front of him, without looking away from the play of shadows across Izaya’s hair that catch at the other’s lashes as he looks up to smirk at Shizuo again. “You shouldn’t even be in here, you’re not old enough to get in.”

Izaya’s lashes flutter, his smile eases into something darker; when he draws back from the counter it takes everything Shizuo has to not lean in to trail him over the distance. “Neither are you,” Izaya says, bracing a hand against the edge of the bar as he slides onto the edge of the barstool in front of Shizuo. “How on earth did you manage to get this job?” His gaze slides away from Shizuo’s face again to dip down towards the half-full cup in front of the other. “I bet _I_ could make a better cocktail than you could.”

Shizuo can feel his shoulders tense at this reminder of his too-recent failures. “I’m getting trained,” he says, still without looking away from Izaya’s face. “They said they needed the help and it would be worth the effort to teach me.”

Izaya looks back up to him. His mouth twitches with unvoiced laughter. “Not going well, then?”

“Be quiet,” Shizuo tells him, and looks away to grab at the glass in front of him to pour out the half-made drink inside. He’s forgotten what he was doing anyway. “How did you find out I was working here?”

Izaya huffs a laugh. “Gossip,” he says. “There’s not so many too-young bartenders with bleached blond hair in Ikebukuro that one is going to go unnoticed.” His gaze slides off Shizuo’s face and down to the line of his shoulders; when he braces himself against the counter this time Shizuo is ready for it, holds perfectly still as Izaya stretches out one hand to ghost his fingers against the dark of the other’s vest. “A uniform, huh?”

Shizuo has to swallow to get enough moisture back in his mouth to speak. “Yeah,” he says, and he can feel the one word rumbling in the inside of his chest, fitting itself to shadow to match the thud of his heartbeat coming faster under the breathless touch of Izaya’s fingers against him. Izaya’s not looking at Shizuo’s face; he’s watching the slide of his touch as he trails it against the edge of the other’s vest, the sharp edge of his smile easing into unconscious attention as his mouth goes soft with focus. Shizuo doesn’t look away from the curve of Izaya’s lips as he opens his mouth to offer some semi-appropriate response to maintain what he can of the conversation. “Got out of Raijin’s and into this one.”

Izaya doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at his fingers, his attention so focused on their movement Shizuo isn’t sure he’s heard the words at all. The weight of his touch lifts, skips up, and Shizuo is just taking a breath to steady his heartrate when Izaya’s gaze lands at his throat instead, the other’s focus clinging to the weight of the tie clipped close over the crisp of Shizuo’s shirt, and all Shizuo’s body goes still with sudden expectation. Izaya doesn’t look at his face, doesn’t lift his gaze to see the way Shizuo is staring at him; he just reaches out, leaning far over the counter as his fingertips stretch out to press gently against the folds of dark fabric drawn into the bow against Shizuo’s collar. Shizuo has to swallow against the pressure, as if the featherlight drag of Izaya’s fingers carries enough force to cut off the ease of his breathing, as if the other’s touch is heavy enough to leave him gasping and lightheaded for want of air; but when he moves it’s to tip his chin up to give Izaya more freedom, to better offer the line of his tie for the other’s inspection. Izaya’s lashes dip, his touch shifts; for a moment his fingertips are within a breath of Shizuo’s neck, his touch so near Shizuo is sure the pounding of his heart will flutter against the weight of the other’s skin. Then Izaya ducks his chin, his gaze dragged away by the motion of his head, and his touch is pulling back while Shizuo is still filling his lungs with a breath as much resignation as relief.

“It looks good,” Izaya says, and it’s only then that he lifts his gaze back to meet Shizuo’s stare, that he musters a lopsided smile as if the curve of his lips will be enough to keep Shizuo’s attention away from the heated shadows behind his eyes. “I should ask if the Awakusu can give you a whole bunch so you can have extras.”

Shizuo blinks, his attention to the unsatisfied expectation still shimmering in his veins flickering out at the suddenness of this subject change. “The Awakusu? What do the yakuza have to do with anything?”

Izaya smiles slow, amusement spreading out to almost eclipse the unacknowledged darkness in the stare he’s still fixing on Shizuo. He braces his elbow against the bar counter, presses his chin against the support of his palm; his fingers catch to land just over the line of his jaw. “Shizuo,” he purrs, his voice all smoke and condescension in the air between them. “How do you think I got in here?”

It takes Shizuo a moment to catch up. His thoughts are falling behind, lingering against the pressure of Izaya’s fingers at his collar and imprinting the weight of the other’s touch into his memory with picture-perfect precision. It’s only as he frowns himself into some measure of coherency that he realizes that Izaya _shouldn’t_ be here, that his age alone should keep him on the other side of the door. The realization is enough to pull his attention swinging up towards the bar door and the shadow of the man standing in front of it, enough to draw an “Oh,” of sudden confusion to his lips. He backtracks through the last few moments of conversation, reaching for some kind of understanding from the purr of Izaya’s voice over his words; and then he gets it all at once, puts together the implication of Izaya’s barely-restrained laughter with the suggestion of his implicitly allowed presence and comes up with a single obvious answer of exactly who his employers are. “ _Oh_.”

“It’s probably why they hired you,” Izaya offers conversationally. He’s still watching Shizuo’s face when the other looks back at him, his mouth still clinging to the weight of a smile that only tugs wider when Shizuo sees it. “Since they can’t get information on you by their usual means.”

Shizuo knows enough to make a guess as to who that source is, even if Izaya weren’t grinning self-satisfaction at his own hand in the matter. “You mean you.”

“How did you guess?” Izaya purrs, sounding not at all sorry for his work dealing with the yakuza before he’s even graduated high school.

Shizuo rolls his eye and, looks back to the shadow of the man by the front door. His skin is prickling with self-consciousness with this new piece of information, as if he’s summoning up retroactive guilt for the identity of his employer now that he has it. All he’s done is mix unpalatable drinks and show up for a few days’ worth of training; but everything that seemed minor at first is collecting a shadow around it with this revelation, as if he can be implicated in unscrupulous pursuits just by the weight of the awareness in his mind. “Shit,” he says, softly enough that no one but Izaya will be able to hear him. “Should I--”

“Don’t bother.” Izaya speaks fast, dropping his words with the force of a knife to stall Shizuo’s speech while it’s still in his throat; when Shizuo looks back at him Izaya’s eyes are fixed on him, his mouth still curving against the outline of a smile gone soft and secret. “The Awakusu are involved in almost every business in the city, either directly or indirectly. If you’re working you won’t be able to avoid them entirely, and it could be a lot more dangerous than getting trained to bartend at a nice place like this.”

Shizuo frowns. “How many bars have you _been_ to, Izaya?”

Izaya’s smile lacks the precision Shizuo’s question suggests, but the dark behind his lashes says _too many_ clearly enough for Shizuo to huff a half-voiced groan of frustration at this new epiphany. The sound makes Izaya’s smile go wider, pulling hard enough at the corners of his mouth to sparkle into his eyes as he soothes “The point is don’t worry about it” as casually as if letting go of worry is something Shizuo can do the same way he lets go of the breath in his lungs. Izaya’s gaze drops from Shizuo’s face, trailing down the line of his shoulder and across his chest again, and Shizuo can feel his breathing catch in anticipation a moment before Izaya stretches his hand out again to press his fingertips to Shizuo’s vest.

“Besides,” he says, “The uniform is snappy.” He glances up to catch Shizuo staring at him; his mouth tugs onto a smile, his lashes shift under the fall of his hair. “It makes you look almost human after all.”

Shizuo can feel his whole face glow into the sudden crimson of heat. “Shut up,” he says, reaching up to push at the too-light weight of Izaya’s touch against his shoulder. Izaya just laughs, drawing his hand back before Shizuo can quite decide if he really wants him to or not and resuming his lean against the bar counter rather than continuing to casually intrude into Shizuo’s personal space.

“You should make me something,” he says, bracing his elbow at the counter so he can lean his chin against the support of his hand as he smiles at Shizuo. “I’ll try your worst, let me see how much natural talent you have.”

“No way,” Shizuo growls. “You’re not even eighteen yet, I’m not going to provide you with alcohol while I’m at _work_.”

“No one here would mind.” Izaya doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “They all know who I am.”

“That is not reassuring,” Shizuo tells him, caught somewhere between the threat of a laugh at Izaya’s casual declaration and familiar worry pressing against his ribs as if to remind him it’s still there, as if he had forgotten it for even a moment. Protest is useless, Shizuo knows, as likely to succeed now as it ever has in the past; but he tries anyway, pinning the words down with as much sincere concern as he can manage for the growl of frustrated fear in his throat. “You should be in _class_ , not out making deals with the Ikebukuro underground.”

“I’m not,” Izaya tells him without even pausing for breath. “I’m taking my day off to visit my friend at his new job.” His smile is very bright from across the width of the bar counter. “I could be getting into all kinds of trouble without you. Aren’t you glad I came to visit instead?”

Izaya’s voice says he’s teasing. His gaze is steady, his mouth curving onto amusement that promises this question is more deliberate mockery than sincere. But Shizuo’s heart is still beating too-fast in his chest, and his attention is still clinging to the dark of Izaya’s hair and the soft edge of his coat collar weighting loose at his shoulders, and for a moment honesty is too sharp and clear on his tongue for him to find the strength to hold it back.

“Yeah,” he says, and ducks his head to hide the glow of color that spreads across his cheeks, that warms under the surface of his skin like it’s trying to light up all the tells of his affection clear enough for both of them to stop turning away from as they have been for years. Shizuo takes a breath, feels the pressure of it inside his chest, feels a smile of pure happiness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s good to see you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Shizuo doesn’t know what expression Izaya is making on the other side of the counter, but after a moment he can hear the sound of the other’s inhale, can hear the tension of laughter under the sound even before Izaya lilts, “You missed me,” with certainty pinning down the corners of amusement on his voice. When Shizuo lifts his head Izaya is grinning at him, self-confidence bright in his smile and weighting behind the dark of his eyes, until even when Shizuo frowns all Izaya meets him with is a laugh that goes through all Shizuo’s body like the electricity he has been so aching for for the last few days.

Shizuo doesn’t agree aloud, doesn’t give voice to support the laughing delight in Izaya’s throat. He’s sure it’s clear in the lack of denial he gives, in the way he reaches out across the counter to push against Izaya’s shoulder in a show of irritation with no force behind it, is sure that Izaya knows the truth of the statement the same way Shizuo can taste knowledge of the inverse implication like the sweet of vanilla clinging to his tongue.

Izaya’s the one who came looking for him, after all.


	37. Carrying

Shizuo misses Izaya.

He didn’t realize it would be so hard after he graduated. He can remember the year apart they spent while Shizuo was attending Raijin and Izaya was still finishing middle school; the days were long, he knows, he can remember lunchtimes stretching endlessly over half-formed concern for something he didn’t know enough to properly worry over, remembers classes that he entirely missed for the distraction of thinking about what Izaya was doing, where he was, who he was thinking of. But there was always the end of the school day to look forward to, always the walk home to the darkened windows of the Orihara house or the warm glow of Shizuo’s own; even studying for tests or finishing homework happened with Izaya’s feet pressing against Shizuo’s hip, or Shizuo’s shoulder leaning against Izaya’s, or Izaya’s fingers curling distraction through Shizuo’s hair. Shizuo hadn’t realized, then, how much of a comfort the other’s presence in the afternoons had been; he had only felt the lack of shared schoolday hours, had looked forward to Izaya’s start at Raijin with a focus that felt like the last great countdown of his life. He hadn’t thought about his graduation then, hadn’t thought about the demands of a job and the misalignment of working hours with high school classes, and now he feels the lack like retroactive judgment, like a weight the heavier for his lack of appreciation of what he had before. Full days go by, now, without him hearing from Izaya with anything more than a short text message or a rushed phone call; once Shizuo goes a week without seeing the other either at his home or in the dark shadows of the bar Izaya’s not meant to be in but visits anyway. Shizuo’s busy, of course, he has plenty to fill his days and his hours whether he’s working or not; but he aches for Izaya, he feels the other’s absence like a gap in his life, like the form that was meant to be alongside him has gone missing and left him to figure out how to function without it. He feels off-balance all the time, like he’s trying to play the part of a role not quite the right size for him; and if he thinks, sometimes, that this just a required step in the eternal forward progress of adulthood, he’s not sure he likes it much at all.

He’s thinking about it while he’s walking home from work one day, pacing out the blocks of distance between his family’s house and the bar where he works as a better way to spend the time than alone in his room hoping for a text message that probably won’t come. He doesn’t have anything to say to Izaya, nothing exciting to report in his life other than the obvious _work is tiring_ or the less obvious but just as true _I miss you_ that Shizuo still, even now, isn’t sure Izaya would want to hear. He’s still thinking about it, loneliness pressing close enough against the rhythm of his breathing that it sounds like a good idea, that the thought of giving voice in some format to the ache of want in his throat seems like a relief, when he sees the dark of a familiar jacket out of the corner of his eye on the sidewalk in front of him.

Shizuo thinks, at first, that he’s imagining things. He’s starting seeing Izaya everywhere since his graduation, and every time he lifts his head to glance at an incoming customer or jogs to the corner of a cross-street to look after a half-glimpsed passerby it’s never who he thought it was, never who he hoped to see. Izaya is in school, Shizuo hopes, or in darker parts of town than Shizuo frequents, he suspects, and even as he’s lifting his head on too-fast reflex he’s flinching back from inevitable disappointment, bracing himself against the flare of unhappiness that will come with the sudden dashing of his brief hope. It’ll just be a dark shirt, or maybe a jacket flaring too-wide in the wind -- but he sees the dark of the coat, and he sees the fur lining the collar and cuffs, and then the wearer lifts a hand to slide into his pocket with casual grace and Shizuo knows beyond question who it is.

“ _Hey!_ ” he shouts, his voice coming out odd and strained in his throat as it forces its way past hope and excitement too sudden for him to easily force down. Izaya doesn’t turn, doesn’t react at all to Shizuo calling after him, but it doesn’t make a difference; Shizuo is tipping forward into a run anyway, falling into the easy length of full strides to catch up with Izaya’s unhurried pace down the sidewalk. His heart is pounding harder, his mouth pulling on a smile, and even as he comes closer Izaya doesn’t turn around, doesn’t show any sign that he heard either Shizuo’s call or the pace of the other’s approaching footsteps. He’s within reach, his shoulder is close enough for Shizuo to reach out and touch; and Shizuo does, stretching out his hand over the distance, and his fingertips skim cloth just as Izaya twists sharply under his hold to face him. Izaya’s face is set, his shoulders straining on tension, his hand sweeping out; and there’s something in his hand, a bright flash of light that Shizuo recoils from even before he has a chance to blink and parse it into the glint of light off a knife edge.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo blurts, adrenaline spilling to voice from his lips as he recognizes the weapon Izaya has in his hand. He’s still too close, there’s no way he can move quickly enough to draw back from the thrust of the blade towards him; except that Izaya’s eyes go wide, Izaya’s feet stumble backwards and away, and then he’s falling to the ground in a display of clumsiness so wholly unlike his usual grace that Shizuo’s heart clenches on panic even before he hears Izaya’s huff of air at his impact with the sidewalk. He lands hard against his left hip before Shizuo can take a step in to try to catch him; Shizuo’s movement comes late, delayed by a handful of seconds while his brain catches up with the shock of the events of the last few minutes, but Izaya’s still on the sidewalk when he steps forward to drop to a knee, still bracing himself against an elbow with a set line at his mouth that speaks to barely-repressed pain at his sudden fall.

“What the _fuck_ , Izaya,” Shizuo blurts, reaching out before he can think for the other’s shoulder. He doesn’t quite make contact -- his fingers catch against his own uncertainty to hover in the air over the other’s coat -- but the impulse is there, the desire to press his hands against Izaya and reassure himself of the other’s safety too strong to wholly fight back. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Izaya says shortly, without looking up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. He twists his wrist to snap the blade of the knife in his hand back into the handle; the motion draws Shizuo’s attention to the casual grace of the action, to the movement that speaks so loud of familiarity that concern surges high enough in Shizuo to drown out even his appreciation of the angle of Izaya’s fingers and the clean flex of his wrist. “You could try being a little less intimidating when you’re saying hi, Shizuo.”

“I didn’t think you were going to pull a _knife_ on me,” Shizuo protests. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“All kinds of things,” Izaya says, and pushes himself hard against the sidewalk to get to his feet without looking at the other. He’s moving down the sidewalk before Shizuo can react, striding away while the other is still staring shock after him. It takes Shizuo a moment to respond, another to move; by the time he’s on his feet Izaya is halfway down the block and walking away with a strange too-fast gait, like he’s trying to move away from Shizuo’s line of sight as fast as possible.

“You’re not supposed to be out this late,” Shizuo offers as he catches up with Izaya’s forced-fast stride and looks at the other sideways so he can see his deliberately blank expression. “It’s way past curfew.”

“Is it really?” Izaya glances at Shizuo sideways, his mouth quirking sharp on a smile. “I get into so much trouble without you, I can’t even tell the time.”

Shizuo sets his jaw. “Don’t be a brat,” he says, with no hope of obedience and more concern than anything else under the words. Izaya looks away again, dropping his gaze as his smile flickers and fades to unreadable blankness. “What were you _doing_?”

“Business.” Izaya won’t meet Shizuo’s gaze; he’s staring straight ahead instead, his jaw set and eyes focused on something pointedly not-Shizuo. “I was working just like you were.”

“My job doesn’t require me to carry a _weapon_ on me.”

“Of course not,” Izaya snaps back with instant bite under the words. “You’re a weapon all in yourself, you don’t need anything more than your body to defend yourself.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t need to defend yourself at all.” Shizuo’s hand comes up, his fingers catching and skimming against Izaya’s shoulder as if to smooth away the tension straining under the other’s coat, as if to persuade him into some near-calm instead of the tight-wound stress clear in the line of his mouth as well as the hunch of his shoulders. Shizuo’s heart aches on worry, on panic, on affection pulled into the pain of concern without a more immediate grounding point for the energy in his veins. “You should be safe at home.”

“If I wanted to be safe I wouldn’t be friends with you,” Izaya says, the words coming with abruptness too immediate to be anything but sincerity, and he looks up all at once to stare at Shizuo, moving so quickly Shizuo almost doesn’t see the way his step falters, the way his knee shifts and nearly buckles before he can catch his weight to steadiness. Izaya’s jaw is still set, bracing hard against the frustration crackling in his voice, and his eyes are dark, like he’s set a wall behind them to turn the shadow of his stare into a dare to meet and match Shizuo’s observation. “Why do you think I talked to you in middle school in the first place?”

Shizuo can feel his heart skip. There’s a bite under Izaya’s words, a vicious weight behind his eyes as if he’s sincerely angry with Shizuo, as if he wants nothing at all to do with him; but stripped of its usual flirtatious weight and distracting laughter his voice sounds the more sincere for its aggression, as if he’s traded politeness in exchange for sudden honesty. The words hit like a blow, like Izaya has reached out to smack open-handed across Shizuo’s face with the full weight of the danger Shizuo carries in the tension of his muscles and the breadth of his shoulders. But there’s something else too, the warmth of sudden epiphany breaking over Shizuo’s mind with such clarity that it overrides the first immediate shock of the words into wide-eyed surprise. Izaya looks away at once, ducking his head and setting his jaw so hard Shizuo can see the strain settling itself into place under his skin, but Shizuo doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t break his focus as Izaya keeps forcing himself down the sidewalk. His hands are at fists at his sides, his pace so deliberately even it looks like a stranger’s, like Izaya is imitating a normal stride instead of his usual graceful elegance, and Shizuo has a whole list of questions he’d like to ask and answers he’d like to demand but they can wait until the major issue is resolved.

Shizuo clears his throat. “You’re limping.”

“I’m not.” Izaya doesn’t look up, barely opens his mouth enough to get the words out. “You’re imagining things.”

Shizuo considers the shadow hiding Izaya’s eyes, the tension in the fists he’s making of his hands, the stubborn determination straining all across his shoulders. Then he takes a half-step closer and lets his arm swing out sideways to bump his hand just against Izaya’s hip. He’s expecting a hiss of pain, maybe a stutter in the other’s stride; but Izaya collapses as if he’s a puppet with his strings cut, the support of his leg giving way so entirely it’s only Shizuo grabbing at his arm to catch him that keeps him from toppling to the sidewalk again.

“You’re a liar,” Shizuo says, the words coming soft with sincerity as he holds Izaya’s weight steady by the grip he has on the other’s arm. “You can’t walk home like that. Let me carry you.”

Izaya’s laugh is sharp, brittle and jagged at the edges like broken glass, but he’s not trying to drag himself free of Shizuo’s hold, isn’t even looking up to meet the other’s gaze. “What, you want to take a turn at playing the hero instead of the monster?”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo says, impatience with this too-familiar taunt spilling free into the clarity of concern at his lips and the pressure of affectionate worry tight in his chest at Izaya’s too-deliberate walk, at how much of the other’s weight he’s supporting even now. Izaya’s head comes up, his gaze catching to hold Shizuo’s; his mouth is startled-soft, his lips parted on the shock of Shizuo’s reaction, his eyes wide and dark as he stares up at the other. He blinks hard, his cheeks start to flush, and Shizuo says “ _Let me_ ,” with all the immovable determination on the words that he can find.

Izaya stares up at him for another long moment. He really is blushing, now; he opens his mouth, closes it again, blinks like he’s trying to collect himself. When he finally speaks his voice is shaky in his throat, wobbling over even the attempt at normal speech. “Well, if you’re going to _insist_.”

Shizuo’s chest unknots, tension easing enough to let him draw a full breath as his hold at the other’s elbow loosens. “Good,” he says, and turns away at once, before he can wait long enough for Izaya’s gaze to flicker down to his mouth, before adrenaline and proximity talk him into a kiss before he’s had a chance to really think through the situation. He takes a knee against the sidewalk, wonders briefly if he’s going to need to insist Izaya brace himself against his shoulders; but Izaya is reaching out as soon as Shizuo is steady, his hand pressing hard at Shizuo’s shoulder as he takes an unsteady step forward. There’s a moment of hesitation, or maybe it’s just Shizuo’s anticipation drawing the moment breathlessly long; and then Izaya is leaning in against him and letting his weight press close against the whole line of Shizuo’s back. Shizuo’s breathing catches, his skin prickles warm with electricity, but he’s moving on instinct and not logic, reaching back without looking to catch at Izaya’s knees and pull the other closer in against him. Izaya wobbles, his balance going precarious for a moment as he leans in closer, and then his hands are catching at Shizuo’s shoulders, his face is pressing into Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo’s entire body is going taut, the blood in his veins illuminating itself like fireworks at the warmth of Izaya’s breathing against his skin.

“Ready?” Shizuo asks, and moves before Izaya can answer, his adrenaline-rushed actions coming out-of-sync with his words. Izaya hisses a startled inhale as Shizuo stands, his grip tightening in instinctive panic at the shift in their balance, but Shizuo’s walking almost as quickly as Izaya is pulling in closer against him, moving down the sidewalk with a pace more strained on the hyper-awareness of Izaya pressed against his shoulders than by the effort required to bear an extra person’s weight on his back. Izaya’s hold slides, his fingers easing on Shizuo’s shoulders like he’s afraid to touch him, like he thinks Shizuo’s skin might be electrified, and Shizuo swallows hard and finds the voice to say “Hold on better, you’re going to fall like that,” with so much self-conscious strain on the words that he’s sure Izaya must be able to hear it, must know how hard Shizuo’s heart is pounding from the press of Izaya’s chest flush against his shoulders and the rush of the other’s breathing against his hair. He can hear the failure of his attempt at casual conversation, can feel the impossibility of the goal even as he takes a breath, but he doesn’t know what else to say, can barely find speech at all from the thrum of self-conscious awareness running like flame through the whole of his body. “Haven’t you ever had a piggyback ride before?”

“No,” Izaya says, and pulls himself forward, bracing hard against the support of Shizuo’s hands at the bend of his knees. For a moment his hips are pressed close against the curve of Shizuo’s spine, his legs tense around the other’s waist in a way that sparks life into the flare of Shizuo’s imagination too-close to reality; then he shifts his hold, his hands sliding in and around so he can loop both arms around Shizuo’s neck, and the smell of his skin hits Shizuo with so much force he nearly stumbles, that he feels like the gravity of the whole world is giving way to reorient itself around the rush of vanilla-licorice that presses close against him with the soft of Izaya’s sleeves so near to his face. When Izaya speaks again Shizuo can feel the words fall into motion against his hair. “Who exactly would I have had one from?”

“Huh,” Shizuo offers, nonverbal concession to the point while he tries to pull his focus back around to something other than the proximity of Izaya’s mouth to the flutter of his pulse in his throat, something less loaded with heat than the angle of the other’s legs around his waist. “I used to carry Kasuka back from the park like this, sometimes.” His fingers slide, tighten against the inside of Izaya’s too-skinny knee. “You weigh even less than he used to.”

“Or you’re stronger.” Izaya turns his head; Shizuo can feel the motion catch and drag through his hair as strands tangle against the angle of Izaya’s nose and stick to the damp of his lips. “God help us all if your strength is growing along with all the rest of you.”

Shizuo can’t help the smile that pulls at his mouth, the expression carried on the ticklish pleasure of Izaya’s lips so close against his skin and the gentle teasing under the other’s voice. “Shut up,” he says, affection audible as warmth over the words. “At least wait to complain until you’re not actively benefitting from it.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Izaya wants to know; but Shizuo doesn’t answer, and Izaya doesn’t keep talking, just falls silent and nearly motionless against Shizuo’s back. His arms are still looped around the other’s shoulders, his hold easing into comfort instead of the half-panicked desperation of the first few strides; Shizuo can feel the rhythm of Izaya’s breathing ruffling against his hair, though he can’t judge if the pattern is telltale fast or not when his own heart is racing inside his chest like the effort of carrying Izaya home requires far more physical strain on his part than it does. The only strain he’s feeling is the heat in his veins, the self-consciousness that is clinging to the inside line of Izaya’s legs around him and Izaya’s fingers weighting casual at his shoulders and Izaya’s heart thudding out a rhythm against his spine; but that’s enough, that’s more than distracting, until he reaches for something else, anything else to focus on in an already futile attempt to hold back the heat trying to flush him hard against the inside of his uniform slacks. It’s a doomed effort before he begins -- arousal has too strong a hold of him already, and he thinks having Izaya so close against him would be enough to bring him there anyway even if his imagination weren’t already running wild over hazy-flushed fantasies and unformed desires -- but after a block or two he can find some attention to backtrack over their conversation and pick out the topic dropped by the brief distraction of Izaya’s poorly-hidden injury.

“Is that really why?” he asks with no preamble, breaking the quiet between them like it’s steel before the swing of his fist. Izaya tenses against his back, his grip tightening like he’s coming awake after a drowse. “Why you made friends with me in middle school. Because I was strong?”

There’s a brief pause, just enough for Izaya to process the question, and then: “Of course,” he says, his voice strangely soft against Shizuo’s hair, like he’s a little bit startled even in himself to hear the words spilling from his lips. “I thought you knew.”

Shizuo thinks about the color behind Izaya’s eyes from across the schoolyard after that first fight, thinks about the cut of the other’s smile as he stepped casually into the destruction left behind by Shizuo’s too-ready temper and too-strong muscles. He remembers bruises against a skinny wrist, the taunt of a smirk from the edge of a windowsill, the purr of _monster_ turned over on appreciation until it’s not at insult at all.

“I probably should have guessed,” he says to the street in front of him. “You really are an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?”

Izaya huffs an exhale that is almost a laugh and tips his head forward to bump against Shizuo’s; Shizuo can feel Izaya’s hair catching at his own, can hear Izaya’s words coming hot just against the back of his ear. “And to think, it only took you six years to figure it out.”

“You are such a brat,” Shizuo smiles. “I ought to drop you and let you limp yourself home after all.”

“Probably,” Izaya agrees with unusual surrender to the suggestion. It makes Shizuo laugh, affection too warm in his chest to stay silent as it should, and Izaya falls quiet again, his forehead brushing against Shizuo’s hair as he lets the sound of his breathing take the place of words. Shizuo lets the silence stretch for a moment, lets peace fall over them as memory spirals wide, landing on other details, now: Izaya laughing in his arms in the summertime heat of the park, Izaya yelping not-quite protest as Shizuo toppled him over onto the wet floor of the bathroom. Izaya’s smile, Izaya’s touch, the focus of those scarlet eyes across a temporary battlefield, across a classroom, across a kotatsu, watching everything Shizuo is and seeing everything he could be and accepting all of it, seeking out those corners of Shizuo’s psyche that even he cringes away from, that he can’t stand to look at in the bright of day without Izaya there to show him how.

Shizuo takes a breath, feels the strain of it knot his throat on the threat of almost-tears he can’t hope to restrain. He lets them linger instead, lets them color his voice to the edge of gruffness as he ducks his head in a needless attempt to cover the flush cresting across his cheeks. “No one’s ever liked that about me before.”

Shizuo isn’t sure the words come out right. He feels them stick and catch on emotion, hears them go strained and odd in his throat; he wonders if Izaya knows he’s including himself in that _no one_ , if Izaya knows how much he used to hate the bruises painting the face staring back at him in the mirror. He doesn’t try to clarify, and Izaya doesn’t ask; he just stays quiet for a long, long moment, so long Shizuo wonders if he’ll speak at all for the rest of the walk back to his home. But then, finally: “I do,” almost a whisper, shaped like a secret against Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo’s chest eases, the impossible words to frame his admission dissolving into unimportance with the breathless gratitude that hits him with Izaya’s statement.

It should be no surprise, by now, that Izaya’s acceptance means more to Shizuo than his own.


	38. Having

Shizuo leaves Izaya at his front door. He’d like to follow the other into the dim of the unilluminated hallway, would like to carry him up the stairs and leave him in bed with a dose of ibuprofen and ice against his hip and a promise to stay off his feet until the swelling goes down; but Shizuo knows such a promise would be hard-won at best and completely ignored at worst, and he doesn’t have any reasonable response to Izaya’s request that he be left alone to navigate the quiet of his house so as not to disturb his sisters. “Make sure to ice the bruise,” Shizuo had said, murmuring the words in the softest undertone he could manage; and Izaya had tipped his head into a smile, and huffed a laugh, and said, “Yes, senpai,” with a drawl on the words that left Shizuo too flustered-warm to even attempt a coherent response. Izaya had still been smiling when he turned away to let himself into the house, had glanced back after limping inside into the dark hallway; Shizuo had caught a glimpse of dark eyes, the flash of a smile, and Izaya’s fingers fluttering through a silent goodbye before he eased the door shut between them. Shizuo stayed at the front pathway for a moment, his heart pounding out a rhythm all its own in his chest; and then he turned away, and strode back out to the main street, and made his way back through the night to his own home.

No one is awake when he arrives. It’s only reasonable; the hours at the bar run late enough that Shizuo usually comes home to a silent house, with only the light in the entryway left on to greet him when he lets himself in past the front door. It’s a usual occurrence, nothing worth noting even on a normal night, and tonight Shizuo is more grateful for it than otherwise. With no one awake to greet him there is no need for late-night small talk, no risk of getting pulled into a conversation that will keep him from doing what he wants to do, and what he does, which is toe off his shoes in the entryway, and turn the light off behind him, and make directly for the stairs running up to the privacy of his bedroom.

He doesn’t turn the lights on. It’s better in the dark, he thinks, easier to call up the present-tense clarity of memories of an hour ago, of Izaya’s arms around his neck, Izaya’s lips ghosting against his hair, Izaya’s legs caught around his waist. Shizuo pushes the door shut behind him, turns the lock to guarantee himself the solitude the lateness of the hour already suggests, and then he’s reaching for the front of his slacks, unfastening the button of the fabric even as he stumbles across the dark of his room to sprawl heavy over the bed as he pushes his clothes free of his hips. He’s half-hard before he reaches for himself, his body catching on the heat that has gripped him since Izaya’s fingers closed at his shoulder and Izaya’s body pressed against his back. It’s too much, the memory and the immediacy both together in his mind, and Shizuo has to angle an arm over his face, has to cover even his shut eyes with the weight of his sleeve to immerse himself entirely in the picture-perfect details of the way Izaya felt pressing flush against him.

His clothes still smell like Izaya. It’s everywhere, clinging to Shizuo’s skin, tangled into the strands of his hair, weighting the fabric of his collar. Shizuo can’t find a source, can’t figure out an angle to press his nose against his sleeve so he can inhale Izaya into his lungs; but it’s there anyway, a haze around him like a shimmer of heat in the air, lingering at the back of his tongue when he breathes and firing his blood to flame as he closes his grip tight around himself and strokes up. It’s like Izaya’s there with him still, like Izaya’s in the room, in the dark past Shizuo’s shut eyes and the weight of his arm, like his fingers might catch Shizuo’s wrist and still the rhythm of his hand at any time. Shizuo can imagine it clearly, can almost feel the drag of Izaya’s fingertips at his skin, and when he groans it comes out as “ _Izaya_ ,” his voice wrapping itself close around the edges of the other’s name. He can imagine the flash of a smile, can almost hear the huff of a caught-back laugh, and in his imagination the bed shifts, the sheets tugs under the weight of Shizuo’s body as Izaya climbs to straddle the angle of his knees. Shizuo knows, now, how Izaya’s legs would feel spread open around him, knows how featherlight Izaya’s weight would be pressing against his thighs, and there’s a groan stuck in the back of his throat, heat trying to wrest itself free of his control as the Izaya in his mind slides up over his body and leans in over him, all dark hair and moonlit skin and the soft drag of his mouth on that smile as much a taunt as is it encouragement. Shizuo’s body is hot, is straining towards the contact that exists only in his mind behind the licorice haze clinging to the sleeve of his shirt; but behind his shut eyes Izaya is bracing a hand on his chest, Izaya is pinning him down one-handed as he slides himself back towards the slick drag of Shizuo’s grip on himself. The weight of Izaya’s touch wouldn’t be enough to hold Shizuo in place -- even in imagination, Shizuo knows he could shake it off as if it weren’t there at all -- but his breathing is catching anyway, his lungs straining for air as he imagines Izaya sliding down onto him, as his imagination arches the other’s spine and tips his head back into an angle of unmistakeable heat. Shizuo can picture Izaya clear in his head, can call up with perfect clarity the way his expression would go slack on sensation, the way his lashes would flutter heavy against his cheeks, and his hand is moving faster, now, urging the heat under his skin to greater heights with every rushed drag of his fingers.

It’s a familiar fantasy. This isn’t the first time Shizuo has called up the lines of Izaya’s body over him, not the first time he’s tightened his fingers around the sharp edges of illusory hips and let the thud of his heartbeat in his ears shape into the mirage of Izaya’s voice breaking into moans or straining over Shizuo’s name. But it’s clearer this time, bright at the edges like it’s more real, like it’s close enough to taste, and Shizuo’s skin still remembers the weight of Izaya against him and the gust of Izaya’s breathing against the back of his neck and he’s gasping for air against the cuff of his shirt, filling his lungs with the bitter bite of spice at the back of his tongue as his hand speeds over his cock. He wants Izaya’s hands in his hair, wants Izaya’s legs around his hips, wants to pin Izaya down to the sheets and fit against the heat of his body, wants to breathe in the smell of sweat-warm skin while Izaya is shuddering into pleasure underneath him. He wants it all, wants Izaya’s mouth against his and Izaya’s throat working over a moan as Shizuo kisses against his shoulder, wants his hands pressing against every sharp angle of the other’s body and wants to know what it feels like to topple into orgasm with the taste of Izaya’s skin hot against his tongue. In his head he can see Izaya’s smile, can hear Izaya’s laugh; and then memory cuts in front of fantasy, reminds him of “I do” murmured like a secret against his ear, and Shizuo gasps a breath and comes in a rush, the strain taut along his body collapsing to sudden relief under the waves of pleasure that crash over his awareness. For a moment it doesn’t matter where he is, doesn’t matter that he’s alone with only the fading afterimage of Izaya’s body pressed close against his for company; the pleasure is enough, it’s enough to have the simple comfort of physical satisfaction rippling out into his veins to soothe the strain at his shoulders and the memory of Izaya’s smile behind his eyes to ease the everpresent ache of unfulfilled desire in his chest. Izaya’s not here with him, and in a moment he’ll have to move his arm and work through cleaning himself up from the mess he’s made of his uniform; but for a moment Shizuo just stays where he is, fills his lungs with warm air from the press of his sleeve over his face and lets the comfort of memory spread out to fill the darkest shadows of his mind.

Izaya’s smile is all he’s really wanted since he was in middle school, and that, at least, he knows he can have.


	39. Shine

It’s three weeks to Christmas when Shizuo gets called into the manager’s office.

It comes at the end of a shift, an offhand order of “Come in for a minute, Heiwajima-kun,” so casually that even the unprecedented invitation doesn’t tense Shizuo’s shoulders with any but minor worry. He’s been doing better in recent weeks, he’s sure of it; his drinks appear to be reasonably palatable to all but the most regular of customers, and it’s been almost a month since he lost his temper badly enough to shatter a glass in a too-strong hold. The manager has been understanding of his occasional bursts of irritation and the fallout from them, and on all of the incidents the customer has paled and balked from any further needling, which Shizuo had considered to be more of a benefit than otherwise. He hasn’t done anything wrong recently, as far as he knows; but he can’t think of any other reason to be called in, and when he steps through the doorway it’s with some unformed suspicion of bad news, like he’s bracing himself preemptively for conflict and the ensuing surge of anger it is likely to bring with it. He has his hands relaxed at his sides, is breathing deliberately calmly as he steps through the door; but the manager barely even glances up, just pushes a piece of paper across the desk towards him.

“Congrats,” he says, reaching out for his phone and the flash of a notification light Shizuo can see in the top corner. “The shifts worked out, I was able to approve your request.”

Shizuo blinks. “What?”

“Your request.” The manager taps out of his phone and looks up to meet Shizuo’s uncomprehending gaze. “For Christmas.” He pushes the paper farther across the desk. “You wanted time off that day, didn’t you?”

Shizuo reaches out for the sheet of paper and lifts it to read over the scrawl of text across the form. It’s his handwriting over the pre-printed lines of the time off request; he even remembers filling it out some months ago, with the vague hope that requesting with sufficient notice would give him enough of an advantage to counteract his lack of seniority. He had forgotten about it, had assumed the lack of response meant a refusal and had resigned himself to working through the day on his usual time-consuming schedule; but there’s “Approved” written across the bottom of the page, now, promising him the free time he had already assumed was lost.

“Not many requests this year,” the manager says, looking back at his phone. “You’re lucky, usually everyone wants to take the night off for a girlfriend or a mixer. Guess you’re the only one with anyone to take out.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says. “Yeah.”

“That’s all,” the manager says, waving his hand in clear dismissal without looking up. “See you tomorrow.”

“Right,” Shizuo says, “Goodnight,” and he’s turning for the door, still staring at the sheet of paper in his hand promising him the freedom of an evening, the expanse of hours on Christmas to fill as he sees fit, to spend at his own discretion instead of as required by his job. It’s a heady thought all on its own, would be even without the hope thrumming itself to electricity along his spine; as it is he feels shaky in himself, like he’s likely to lose his balance if he’s not careful with his footsteps. He folds the paper into quarters, slides it carefully into the inside pocket of his vest like it’s some precious artifact; and then he pulls his phone out and has it ringing against his ear by the time he steps out of the back door of the bar and into the street.

It’s dark outside. He had forgotten the hour, hadn’t thought to check the time before he called; he hadn’t been thinking of anything at all, truthfully, except for the nervous energy radiating into his body that demands that he act now, quickly, that he seize the possibility of this unexpected opportunity before it disintegrates. He thinks of pulling the phone away, of hanging up and sending a less disruptive text message instead; but then there’s a _click_ on the other end of the line, and Izaya’s voice: “Shizuo?” startled into softness until Shizuo barely recognizes it.

Shizuo’s chest constricts, tensing against the rush of adrenaline to his heart as it always does when he first hears Izaya’s voice after some time apart. “Izaya,” he says, and the name is warm on his tongue, spilling to affection too quickly for him to call back even if he wanted. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Izaya still sounds a little startled, like he’s adrift in this conversation as he almost never is in any of the situations Shizuo has seen him in. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Shizuo laughs, happiness too bright in his throat to hold itself to silence. “It’s past midnight,” he says. “I just got out. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Izaya shoots back. “You could have woken me up, it’s thoughtless calling this late, you know.”

“I didn’t.” Shizuo can’t stop smiling; he’s sure it must be audible on his tone, must be clear even past the rough edge he tries to put on his voice for the sake of banter. “Don’t pick a fight.”

“I hear and obey,” Izaya says, but the words come out lilting on amusement, riding the edge of an unvoiced laugh.

“Brat,” Shizuo says. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

There’s a tiny, breathless pause. It’s hardly there at all; Shizuo wouldn’t notice it if he weren’t listening for it, if his heart weren’t pounding so hard on hope and excitement that he can count every second twice over as it ticks past. Then: “I don’t know yet,” Izaya tells him with the faintest hint of strain under his voice, like he’s uncertain of his words or maybe like he’s holding back a smile. “Why does it matter to you?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes unseen in the dark of the night. “You are such a pain.” His heart is pounding, his skin flushing hot, but the words are falling fast from his lips, adrenaline pushing him to impulsivity of speech instead of action for once. “I just found out I have the evening off. Are you going to come over?”

It’s not quite what he had intended to say. _Come out with me_ , was what his racing mind had suggested, _are you free for a Christmas date?_ what his more reckless heart had insisted upon. But between the pressure of _date_ threatening his tongue and the careful construct offered by rationality his mouth had moved without waiting for input, turning the request into more of a demand than the plea Shizuo had intended. He flinches at the harsh edge of the words, tries to backtrack himself to a better position, but Izaya’s answering before Shizuo has the chance to rephrase.

“It’s still three weeks away,” Izaya says. “I’m sure you can pick yourself up a girlfriend before then if you try real hard.”

Shizuo’s growl spills from the center of his chest, forming from the knot of tension that clutches his heart like a vice at the sound of Izaya’s voice, at the thought of Izaya’s smile, at the memory of the dark weight of Izaya’s lashes. It’s loneliness, partially, it’s made from too many quiet weeks alone and too many late-night fantasies that run ragged over much-revisited memories; but mostly it’s frustration, impatience flaring to sound in Shizuo’s chest at Izaya’s persistence in turning away from reality, at his determined refusal to see Shizuo’s unsubtle interest in him rather than in some invented romance. “I don’t want to spend Christmas with a girlfriend,” Shizuo hisses, hearing implied honesty like an echo: _I want to spend Christmas with_ you. “Are you going to come over?”

“No,” Izaya says immediately.

Shizuo’s stomach drops. He had just been hoping, he thought, he hadn’t been counting on Izaya being available to spend the day with him; it’s not like he hasn’t been reminded in previous years that his best friend might have something better to do than spend the holiday in his company, even if the threat has never materialized to anything more sincere than bright-eyed teasing. But Izaya had said he didn’t have plans already, and Shizuo had been counting on that as if on solid ground under his feet, and in the first moment of loss all he can do is take a sharp breath of ice-cold air, is feel expectation lurch sideways and away from him, and then:

“I’ll meet you downtown,” Izaya says, reinstating all Shizuo’s balance so suddenly it blows the air from his lungs in a rush. “When do you get done with work that day?”

Shizuo has to try twice before he can find air to speak clearly. “Three.”

“Fine.” Izaya purrs over the word, drawing it longer and warmer than such a brief sound has any right to be. “I’ll see you on Christmas, Shizuo.”

Shizuo is smiling again, his cheeks flushed warm with pleasure as much at the sound of his name in Izaya’s voice as at the promise of happiness to come on Christmas afternoon. “Good,” he says. He reaches for something else to say, anything to extend the conversation a moment longer, and his attention lights on the dark of the street in front of him and the sparkle of the stars overhead. “Sorry for calling so late.”

“It’s fine,” Izaya tells him. “I wasn’t asleep.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “I knew you weren’t. Are you even at home?”

Izaya hums noncommittally. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, but he’s laughing, he can’t hold to even the show of irritation when he’s smiling as wide as he is. “Go the fuck to bed, Izaya.”

“I’m going,” Izaya says. “Bye.”

Shizuo laughs again, happiness pressing too close against the inside of his chest to allow for anything else. “‘Night,” he says, and pulls the phone away from his ear fast, before he can give in to the temptation to draw the conversation out any longer. It’s late, after all, and even if Shizuo knows Izaya won’t go to class in the morning he doesn’t want to give the other any more excuses to ditch than he already has. His phone fits heavy in his pocket, his shoulders relax under the line of his vest, and when Shizuo looks up at the sky overhead he can just see the glow of the moon rising over the edge of the city’s horizon.

The street shines like silver in the moonlight.


	40. Restraint

Shizuo gets off work late.

It’s not from forgetfulness. He’s been thinking about his plans with Izaya since before he left the house for his morning shift at the bar, has been so jittery with excitement and distraction all day that he’s been checking the clock at five-minute intervals and ruined three drinks by losing track of where he was in the recipe. But the bar owner showed up three minutes before the end of Shizuo’s shift, and even Shizuo’s best efforts to extricate himself with steadily waning politeness didn’t let him free until he finally blurted, “I have someone waiting for me,” barely thinking to append “Sorry” as an attachment to the blunt aggression of the statement. That had stalled the conversation where it was, had set him loose to make his way to the door, and even the laughing call of “Enjoy your date!” hadn’t been enough to more than flush his cheeks with a tinge of embarrassment as he shoved the door open and escaped to the wintery cool of the street outside. It’s not like he hasn’t thought the word himself anyway, not like he hasn’t been repeating it over and over inside the privacy of his own head like he’s nursing a flame between the cupped angle of his palms; he’s still thinking about it as he lifts his head to scan the street, to skip over the unfamiliar faces of strangers like they’re not even there as he looks for Izaya. _It’s a date_ , his thoughts murmur, _you’re on a date, you’re taking him on--_ and then there’s a gust of wind, and a ruffle of movement so familiar Shizuo’s chest is tightening even as he turns to look, and there’s Izaya, balancing on the edge of a chest-high chainlink fence and grinning so bright Shizuo can see it even across the width of the street. Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him, his mouth tugs into a helpless curve of warmth, and he barely glances at the quiet street before he’s stepping out onto the pavement to cut straight across the distance between them.

“Hi there,” Izaya says, still clinging to that smile as Shizuo approaches. His eyes are brighter than Shizuo remembers, sparkling with color as if they’ve captured the illumination of the Christmas lights strung in the windows of the storefronts around them. “You’re late, you know.”

“I know.” Shizuo doesn’t look away from Izaya’s smile. He’s not sure he could if he tried. “I got caught in a conversation with the owner and couldn’t get away.”

“How rude of him.” Shizuo steps in closer even though he doesn’t need to; he wants to touch Izaya’s hip, wants to curl his arm around Izaya’s waist, wants to press his nose against the soft lining of the other’s coat and never let go. He reaches for the fence instead, curls his fingers tight against the metal links; it’s cold to the touch but at least it keeps his hand occupied. Izaya’s still watching him, angling his gaze sideways to slip under the weight of his lashes. “You should have told him you had a date.”

Shizuo’s skin flushes hot, his whole body responding immediately to the echo of his own thoughts in Izaya’s voice; but when he looks up Izaya is just watching him, his expression composed and focused like he’s waiting for Shizuo’s reaction to guide his own. Shizuo thinks about seizing the opportunity, about saying _I did_ just to see if he can rattle away some of that considering calm behind Izaya’s eyes; and then he lets the possibility go and says “I did tell him I was meeting someone” without volunteering anything further. “You could have come inside, you know, you would have been warmer.”

“I’m fine,” Izaya says lightly. “There’s this amazing invention called a jacket that is intended to keep people warm even when it’s cold out. It’s a novel thing, you should try it sometimes.”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ lecturing me on this,” Shizuo says, trying and mostly failing to hold back the tug of a smile at his mouth as he looks up at Izaya perched at the edge of the fence. “Are you going to get down, or should I leave you there to preen and go into town myself?”

Izaya’s eyelashes dip, his mouth drags into a smile at the corner. “You told your boss you had a date,” he says, even though Shizuo hasn’t said that word aloud all day, as if Izaya can hear the echo of Shizuo’s thoughts without even struggling for it. “I’d hate to make you a liar.” He leans forward off the edge of the fence and reaches out to catch his fingers at Shizuo’s shoulder, and Shizuo stretches a hand up in immediate, reflexive response, his fingers finding their way to Izaya’s waist like they were meant to settle there. Izaya slides forward at Shizuo’s touch, trusting his weight to the other instead of to the support of the fence without a moment of hesitation, and for just a breath Shizuo’s nose is pressed close against the front of Izaya’s jacket and he can breathe in a lungful of winter-chill air inches away from the other’s clothes. He wants to lift his other hand, wants to catch Izaya in his arms and hold him as close as they are now; but Izaya’s moving already, letting himself slide down to the ground and pulling away before Shizuo can manage to tighten his hold on the other’s waist to keep him where he is. Shizuo’s fingers close on air instead of coat, his hands left empty of anything except winter chill, and Izaya is moving away down the sidewalk, drawling “So, Shizuo,” without even looking back while Shizuo has to jog to catch him up. “Where shall we go for Christmas?”

Shizuo blinks. He hadn’t thought about the day beyond the simple pleasure of indulging in Izaya’s company for an evening; the loss only strikes him now, when it’s too late to claim anything but lack of foresight. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing a hand roughly through his hair as his cheeks start to flush with self-consciousness. “What do you feel like doing?”

“Hmm.” Izaya lifts his chin to look up at the sky; his gaze flickers to skim over Shizuo’s expression for just a moment, his mouth tightening on the start of a smile. “Karaoke’s popular, I understand.”

Shizuo makes a face. “You’d spend the whole time making fun of my taste in music.”

Izaya’s mouth twists on a grin. “If you had better taste in music I wouldn’t have to.” When he turns his head it’s to smile at Shizuo, the cut of his smile wholly undone by the soft behind the color of his eyes; his cheeks are flushed with cold and faintly pink against the chill in the air, his mouth darkened by the wind to a deeper red than usual. Shizuo’s attention flickers down, his gaze skimming over the curve of Izaya’s mouth; and Izaya turns away, dropping his chin and looking down so his expression is hidden by the fall of his hair.

“You’re probably right, though,” he says. “It’ll be impossible to get a room for just two people without any kind of a reservation.”

“We could get something to eat,” Shizuo offers without looking away from what little he can make out of Izaya’s face. “I think Russia Sushi is open.”

“Russia Sushi is always open,” Izaya agrees. “I’m not sure that they actually serve _food_ , but they’re always _open_ , technically.”

“The more expensive stuff isn’t bad,” Shizuo points out, his heart pounding over _date, date, date_ like repetition will make reality out of his hopes. His feet are carrying him closer to Izaya, cutting down the distance between their bodies as he moves, but Izaya’s not veering away, he’s close enough that Shizuo could reach out and drop an arm around his shoulders, could curl his fingers into a gentle hold around the angle of the other’s wrist. He looks down at Izaya’s sleeve, at the angle of his fingers relaxed against his hip, and his heart pounds on temptation he knows he won’t capitulate to but can’t help thinking about. “I just got my paycheck for the last couple weeks,” he says, his sleeve catching against the cuff of Izaya’s as their arms swing out-of-time with each other, as his fingers weight against the other’s sleeve. “I could--” and then his hand bumps Izaya’s, his knuckles grazing what feels like ice, and all his tight-wound adrenaline snaps into concern so abruptly it leaves him no time for subtlety.

“ _Fuck_ , your hands are _freezing_ ,” is what he says, and what he’s doing is grabbing at Izaya’s wrist with an impulse born too immediately of concern for him to hold back. Izaya stops dead on the sidewalk, his forward motion wholly stalled as Shizuo’s hand closes on his, but Shizuo’s not moving either; his feet stopped for him at the same time his fingers bumped Izaya’s, at the same time he felt the painful chill radiating from the other’s skin. “How long were you waiting for me outside?”

“Not long,” Izaya says, but Shizuo doesn’t even look at his face; he can feel the lie in the cold weighting the angle of Izaya’s fingers in his.

“Why didn’t you just come inside?” he asks, even though he knows Izaya too well for the question to be anything but rhetorical. “I know the bouncer lets you in every time you come by, you could have warmed up while I was finishing.”

“I had only just gotten there.” Izaya’s hand is slack in Shizuo’s; he’s not moving to draw it away, not even tugging at the pressure even as Shizuo weights his thumb against Izaya’s palm and pushes hard in an attempt to win some fraction of warmth from the wind-chilled skin. “I’ve just been out and about all afternoon, I had other things to do.”

Shizuo looks up. Izaya’s staring at him, his eyes dark and fixed on Shizuo’s face; it’s like he hasn’t even noticed the pressure of Shizuo’s hold on his hand, like he’s utterly separate from the electricity running through Shizuo’s entire body from that point of contact. “I wish you wouldn’t get into trouble without me.”

“Wish all you want,” Izaya says. “If you hate it that much, you’re welcome to find a new best friend.”

“I’m not--” Shizuo starts, and then he sees Izaya’s mouth shift, sees his lips trembling for a moment before he tenses them into the beginnings of a frown, and he closes his mouth on his sentence unspoken while he eases back from the dare to aggression Izaya’s words offered. When he speaks again it’s softer, gentler, as sincere as he can make his voice without startling Izaya away like some skittish cat. “I just worry about you.”

“You do.” Izaya twists his hand hard in Shizuo’s hold, offering sudden resistance to the other’s grip in place of the slack surrender he was giving before; Shizuo looks down, and lets his hold go, and Izaya pulls his hand away to slide his wind-chilled fingers into his pocket instead of Shizuo’s grasp. Shizuo’s skin prickles with lost electricity. “Maybe that’s why I do it.” Izaya’s smiling when Shizuo looks up at him, his mouth dragging at the corner into near-laughter; the tremor at his mouth is gone, the darkness in his eyes has hardened to a wall, and there’s no trace of sincerity anywhere in his expression or his tone.

Shizuo frowns, frustrated more with the sense of a missed opportunity than by the mockery on Izaya’s words. “Don’t be a brat.”

Izaya laughs. “Don’t be silly, Shizuo,” he says, turning to pace backwards down the sidewalk without looking away from Shizuo’s face. “You know you love that about me.”

 _I do_ , Shizuo’s heart thrums in his chest. _I love everything about you_. But Izaya’s still grinning at him, and there’s no space for sincerity behind the bright of his gaze, and so Shizuo just rolls his eyes and says “You’re the worst” with affection urging the corner of his mouth towards a smile instead of a scowl. “I can’t believe I’m friends with you.”

“I can’t either,” Izaya smiles. “Why would you choose me when you have _so_ many other options available to you?”

Shizuo looks at the dark of Izaya’s hair tangling in the wind, at the bright color behind the weight of his lashes, at the heartstopping almost-fall of his footsteps against the sidewalk. He’s close enough to touch, Shizuo thinks, close enough that Shizuo could reach out and grab at his elbow, or the collar of his coat, or the curve of his waist, could brace him in place and step in against him and press his mouth against the sharp dip of Izaya’s teasing smile the way he’s dreamt of doing for years.

“I must be a masochist,” Shizuo says, and pushes his hands into his pockets instead.


	41. Graduate

Shizuo leaves the hall as soon as Izaya has graduated.

He doesn’t go far. He’s been looking forward to today for months; he’s not about to return home without even saying anything to the other. But he feels out-of-place in the ceremony hall, with younger siblings and parents to look askance at his bartender uniform and his bleached-blond hair, and he’s thrumming so warm with adrenaline that staying still for the whole of the ceremony is all but an impossibility. He ducks out in the gap between one student and the next, escaping the enclosure of the hall for the cool breeze in the courtyard, and paces out the worst of the aching happiness in his chest in a few idle loops around the empty space. It takes a few minutes, passes some of the time left for the remainder of the ceremony, and then he makes for the front gates of the school to lean against the familiar brick columns and wait for Izaya to find him. There’s no chance he’ll be missed -- he’s easy to spot, he knows, and Izaya’s never had any problems finding Shizuo when he’s looking for him -- and over the border of the school grounds Shizuo doesn’t need to feel guilty about pulling a cigarette from the box in his pocket and catching a flame to glow bright at the paper. The first inhale burns in his throat, coats the back of his tongue with the bitter taste of nicotine he’s only just becoming familiar with; and it does what the walk didn’t, and soothes away the edge of the nervous excitement he’s been feeling since this morning. With the cigarette in his fingers and the wall at his back Shizuo can tip his head back, can look up at the sky, and can let himself relax into the comfortable pride of the moment and the relief that comes with Izaya’s official completion of high school. It’s been a longer year than Shizuo expected, the time stretching slow with Izaya’s relative absence; but it’s over, now, Izaya has a diploma to match the one hanging on Shizuo’s bedroom wall, and Shizuo lets himself slide into a daydream of early lunches together, of hours spent in Izaya’s company in the afternoon hours before Shizuo’s shifts or even the moonlit ones after, of late-night meetings and easy laughter and--

“Hey there.” Izaya’s smiling when Shizuo turns his head to look back at him, his stride easy and fluid like he’s shed some weight in exchange for the cylinder of the diploma in his hand. “Didn’t you have the patience to wait through the whole ceremony?”

“I saw you graduate,” Shizuo tells him, starting to smile as he takes a last drag from his cigarette and reaches to find the envelope in his pocket to catch the stub of it. Izaya comes close and turns to lean against the wall next to the other while Shizuo pockets the envelope again. “I just didn’t want to sit through the rest of your class. I knew you’d find me afterwards.”

“You just wanted to have a cigarette.” Izaya reaches out to press his fingers against Shizuo’s vest, hard enough that Shizuo can feel the envelope inside crinkle to the force. When he glances up his mouth is curving on amusement, his eyes are bright with laughter. “Are you already such a slave to addiction?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to push Izaya’s touch away with enough care that the aggression of the action is completely undermined even before his smile breaks wide across his face. “I didn’t want to be a damper on the family celebrations for the other students.”

Izaya’s forehead creases, his smile flickering away as he draws it into a deliberate frown. “That is true,” he allows, sounding thoughtful in a way that Shizuo might actually believe if he didn’t know Izaya as well as he does. “I guess the parents wouldn’t really want a pervert there at their child’s graduation.”

Shizuo’s inhale goes sideways on sheer shock. “ _What_?” he blurts, coughing himself back into sufficient air to fill his lungs as he gapes at Izaya. “Are you talking about _me_?”

“Obviously.” Izaya turns away from Shizuo’s stare, leaning back against the wall behind him so he can tip his head up to gaze at the bright of the sky. Shizuo can see the dark of his lashes shift as he blinks, as his eyes cut sideways for a moment of attention in spite of the apparent unconcern of his position. “Who else would I be referring to?”

Shizuo’s spine prickles into completely unwarranted self-consciousness. Izaya is just teasing him, he thinks, there’s no way he can know about the nearly-nightly fantasies Shizuo’s imagination has formed around his best friend, there’s no way he can know how hot Shizuo’s blood goes just at the curving line Izaya’s throat makes with his head angled back like it is. He still feels the weight of his own knowledge pressing against his chest, still has to catch an inhale and force his words steady before he can attempt denial.

“I’m not a pervert,” he growls. “Why would you--”

“Of course you are,” Izaya cuts him off. He’s looking at Shizuo sideways again, his lashes dipping down to half-shadow the bright of his eyes. There’s the twitch of movement at the corner of his mouth. “You corrupted a pure young boy into god only knows what kind of debauchery and sin.”

Shizuo very nearly laughs in Izaya’s face. As it is he gets his mouth closed on the burst of disbelief before it breaks free, but he can still feel the tug of tension at the corner of his mouth as he tries to fight back amusement. “Sorry, _who_?”

“Seducing a minor is a terrible thing, Shizuo,” Izaya continues without looking away. He’s starting to smile in truth, now, the curve of his mouth threatening the edge of a grin as he holds Shizuo’s gaze. “Are you really that into high schoolers?”

“You are _four months_ younger than me,” Shizuo says, because it seems safer to focus on that part of the conversation rather than trying to pin down what exactly in their interactions Izaya considers seduction so Shizuo can do more of it. “And we’re _friends_ , I’m not seducing you into anything.” Shizuo’s heart is pounding, his hands trembling with nervous adrenaline; he can feel his skin glowing warm like the springtime sunlight is far warmer than it is in fact, like his skin is illuminating itself on the force of the energy surging to heat in him. “If anything it’s the other way around.”

Izaya turns his head, his smile melting into wide-eyed shock. “ _Have_ I been seducing you, Shizuo?” His chin dips down, his lashes flutter; for a moment Shizuo can’t find air to fill his lungs. “You’ll have to let me know next time so I can do a better job of it.”

Shizuo’s entire body flares into radiant heat for a moment. Partially it’s from the echo of his own thoughts in Izaya’s voice, partially from the too-clear image that breaks into his thoughts at the purr of Izaya’s words; but mostly it’s the certainty, the absolute self-awareness that _he’s flirting with me_ , the thought too clearly parsed for even the usual ambiguity of Izaya’s actions to cover it up.

“That’s not what I--” _meant_ , Shizuo intends to say, but the lie sticks on his tongue, refuses to fall easily when his whole body is aching with all the want Izaya has been drawing out of him for all the years they’ve known each other. He closes his mouth instead and frowns at the dark of Izaya’s focused stare, at the curve of laughter threatening the corner of the other’s mouth. “ _You’re_ the one who corrupts _me_.”

“Is that the best defense you can come up with?” Izaya asks from under the shadow of his lashes. “You should really take responsibility for the terrible effect you’ve had on me all these years.”

“I’ve been a _great_ influence on you,” Shizuo says, and he’s reaching out to push at Izaya’s shoulder, to frame the need for physical contact with the excuse of aggression he’s sure Izaya can see through as well as he can. “God only knows what trouble you’d get yourself into alone.”

Izaya sighs heavily. “I’ve been surrounded by the activities of delinquents for _years_.” His tone is still teasing, swinging through sing-songy lilting that makes Shizo want to laugh, that makes Shizuo want to stop the sound at the other’s lips with the weight of his mouth. Shizuo reaches for Izaya’s shoulder again, trying for a grab this time instead of a shove, and Izaya doges easily, unfolding from the wall and backing away towards the school gate instead as his smile breaks free into a bright-edged grin. “Drawn into gang warfare and now tangled up with the yakuza, really, it’s a miracle I graduated at all.”

“It really is.” Shizuo stretches out, stepping in closer as he goes; his hand comes out, reaching for a weight at the shadowed dark of Izaya’s hair, and Izaya takes a step sideways to dodge the contact with the same skittish reaction Shizuo has seen over and over again, that Shizuo could predict if he tried, that Shizuo _has_ predicted, because he has his other arm out to catch and stall Izaya’s motion half-formed. Izaya’s head turns, his expression flickering into shock at the unexpected contact, and in his moment of hesitation Shizuo is catching his fingers into Izaya’s hair and pulling the other in close against the support of his body.

“You are such a brat,” Shizuo says, except the words go soft in the back of his throat like they’re melting to tangle around his tongue the same way Izaya’s hair is catching at his fingertips. Izaya’s pressed close against him, closer Shizuo thinks than he’s ever been before; and then Shizuo takes a breath and Izaya fills his lungs, the spicy bite of the other’s scent clinging like licorice at the back of his tongue and chasing away even the lingering taste of cigarettes from his lips. He turns his head against Izaya’s hair, his fingers sliding down to stroke through the soft weight of strands, and then his arm is fitting around Izaya’s shoulders like it was meant to be there, his hold curling close around the span of the other’s body to keep him right where he is. Shizuo’s whole body prickles with self-consciousness, with hyper-awareness of Izaya’s hair, Izaya’s skin, Izaya’s too-thin shoulders pressing close against him; and then he moves, instinct stepping in to take the place of thought and telling him to lift his other arm, to catch Izaya to stillness in his hold. Izaya takes a sudden breath, hissing shock against the front of Shizuo’s shirt, but Shizuo doesn’t ease his hold, doesn’t let go of the rhythm of Izaya’s heart beating against his.

“I’m proud of you,” Shizuo says, feeling dizzy, feeling drunk, like the whole world has fallen away to leave justthis tiny square of pavement under his feet for the two of them to press together. Izaya is very still in his arms. “Congratulations on your graduation, Izaya.”

Izaya doesn’t move for a long moment. Shizuo can hear the rush of his breathing coming hard at the front of Shizuo’s shirt, like Izaya’s struggling for air or like he’s in the middle of a dead sprint instead of standing utterly, perfectly still. It’s like he’s a statue, like he’s turned to the chill of marble or the fragility of glass under Shizuo’s touch; if Shizuo couldn’t feel the tremor of the other’s breathing against him he would almost think it really had happened, that him overstepping the delicate boundary between them had stolen away the flushed proof of life that clings to Izaya’s lips and colors the arch of his cheekbones. Shizuo wonders if he shouldn’t let go, if he shouldn’t release his hold and retreat back over the invisible line that has always kept him from doing this before; but the idea tenses against his spine, his body physically rejecting the idea even as his breath catches as if to draw in more of Izaya’s presence to fill the space in his chest.

There’s a moment of hesitation, another heartbeat of absolute stillness but for the race of Shizuo’s pulse; and then Izaya shifts, a tiny movement, lifting his hand with as much care as if he thinks he’ll break Shizuo’s hold if he moves too fast, as if he’ll startle Shizuo back if he acts too rapidly. But he _is_ moving, Shizuo can feel the shift of the action tensing all along Izaya’s shoulder under his hold; and then there’s a weight at his back, the press of Izaya’s fist-curled hand settling in against his spine, and Shizuo’s entire body sags into relief so sharp and bright it’s nearly painful. Izaya shifts his head, ducking to weight his forehead at Shizuo’s shoulder so his face is entirely obscured by the dark of the other’s vest; but Shizuo can still hear the deliberate breath he takes, and he can feel the careful unfurling of Izaya’s tight-clenched hand opening to fit the delicate span of his fingers against Shizuo’s back. Izaya takes another inhale, a deep one, like he’s choking for want of air or maybe for too much of it; and his arm tightens, flexing to hold Shizuo closer against him, and Shizuo has never loved him so much in all his life, can barely breathe for the impossible span of affection trying to force itself into the space of Izaya’s arm caught around him.

Shizuo thinks he might never be able to let Izaya go again. Right now, that doesn’t seem like very much of a problem.


	42. Predicted

Shizuo is on his break at work when he gets the text.

He only has a few minutes left to loiter in the back room, where there’s never much of interest to do except scroll idly through webpages on his phone in search of something vaguely entertaining to pass the time until he goes back out for the second half of his shift. When his phone buzzes he thinks at first it’s Izaya, as it usually is; but the name that flashes over the screen is _Celty_ instead, the text of the message oo brief and cleanly punctuated to be Izaya’s style. _Shizuo_ , it says, so short Shizuo can read the whole of the statement without even tapping through to the message itself, and then immediately, almost before he has a chance to read the first, _Are you at…_ He frowns at the screen, taps against the glass to open the texts; but there’s a third coming in, and that’s the first one that opens under his thumb.

 _There’s a problem_.

There’s nothing particularly dramatic about the statement itself. If it were Shinra sending the messages Shizuo would roll his eyes and ignore them; even with Celty, there’s a good chance she’s in the middle of a new documentary about the threats of alien mind-control and is just warning him about the latest in a series of potential dangers that have yet to materialize in any kind of constructive way. But there are the two messages before as well, the first not-quite greeting and the second, once he opens it: _Are you at work?_ all three time-stamped with the same numbers, and Shizuo can feel his spine prickle with some vague sense of foreboding, like sensing a storm in the air that hasn’t yet materialized into existence.

 _yeah_ , he sends back. _what’s up?_

There’s a pause. Shizuo was expecting an immediate response, and in fact Celty’s reply comes within the minute; but there are long seconds of waiting, with his shoulders hunched closer on themselves with every breath he takes, and by the time his phone buzzes in his hand he’s frowning without realizing it, glaring down at his screen like he can get a faster response via frustration.

_Don’t freak out, okay?_

Shizuo grimaces, types fast. _tell me._

 _I was on my way to go grocery shopping downtown when I found something_. There’s a pause, a moment of time for Shizuo’s forehead to crease with confusion at this complete lack of clarity; and then his phone hums again, displays a loading screen for a brief moment, and then clears to reveal an image that it takes him a moment to make sense of. It’s black, mostly, dark like the phone didn’t have enough illumination to take the photograph; but there’s something bright in the middle, over-exposed by what is clearly a flash, and then Shizuo blinks and pieces it into Celty’s dark-gloved hand holding the handle of an open folding knife.

His phone hums while his breath is still catching on recognition in his chest. _Isn’t this Izaya’s?_

Shizuo can feel rationality evaporate out of his awareness like fog before a sunrise. Some part of him is shouting for calm, is trying to point out that it’s just a knife, that Izaya might have dropped it, maybe it was abandoned or lost or stolen; but it’s open in the picture, the blade left uncovered as it would never be if Izaya had just lost it, and more than that Shizuo can feel the weight of inevitability bearing down on him, all the _someday_ s and _eventually_ s finally outpacing him to catch up to Izaya while he’s not there, while he’s not around to protect him.

_where_

Celty texts back an address, followed immediately by _I can come and pick you up_ and, hard on the heels of that one, _Don’t freak out!_ , the messages arriving with a speed that more than demonstrates the frantic pace of her texting. But Shizuo can’t heed to the request of that last, and he can’t hold still long enough for the first, so he just types back _meet me there_ as he’s moving for the door to the main room of the bar.

There are people in the room, a few patrons sitting  around the edge of the space and Shizuo’s manager behind the counter to handle any orders that come in on Shizuo’s break. “Ah, Heiwaijima-kun,” he says as Shizuo emerges from the back room. “You’re just--”

“Sorry,” Shizuo says without looking up and without slowing the pace of his stride. “I have to go.” And he’s going, moving across the front room of the bar and for the door while his manager is still gaping shock at his abrupt response. Shizuo doesn’t look back, doesn’t wait for a reply; by the time he’s pushing the bar door open and stepping out onto the street he’s forgotten all about his job, and his manager, and the entirety of the building at his back. There’s just the sidewalk in front of him, the pavement clear like it’s laying down a path for him to follow, and he breaks into a run without even pausing for breath, bolting down the street with a speed he didn’t know he had at his command, adrenaline-fueled muscles granting him the relief of a ground-covering pace instead of the usual destruction he’s never wanted. He pauses at a red light, trapped by the flow of cars in front of him and the warning on the crossing sign; he takes the moment to send a text, _are you okay?_ sent to Izaya’s number before the light changes and he resumes his full-speed run.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He knows he won’t get one. His heart is pounding with echoes of his own words like a prophecy: _this is going to catch up to you someday, I’ll have to come find you in the hospital, I can’t be with you all the time_ and his vision is blurring, his sight hazing with memories of dark bruises on pale skin, with nightmares of blood spilling over soft hair, and he’s gasping for air but his legs are still moving, his body is still carrying him forward as fast as his legs can take him to where Izaya is, to where he should have been all along.

If his strength is worth anything at all, he thinks, it will get him to Izaya in time.


	43. Safe

Shizuo doesn’t remember much of the search. His feet carry him through the familiar streets of the city, send him forward over the intervening distance between his work and where Celty found Izaya’s knife without any need for conscious input from his brain. His heart is pounding more on panic than breathlessness, the adrenaline surging in his veins insisting he has to be in time, that he has to move faster, that he can make it if he only takes an extra step, if he can just move himself more quickly across the few blocks that have never seemed like such a great distance before. By the time he rounds the corner to see Celty pulled over at the edge of the sidewalk he’s all-out sprinting, his legs trembling with the effort and his hands balled into preemptive fists that don’t ease even when he pauses for a moment to see the knife Celty shows him in one gloved hand.

 _It was in front of that alley_ , she types out, her fingers moving shadow-fast and still too slowly for Shizuo’s taste. _There’s nothing else to see._ _I’m sorry._

Shizuo barely finishes reading the message before he’s turning back, pivoting to stride towards the dark of the alley and peer into the shadows as if they’re likely to offer him the information they denied to Celty. There’s nothing to see, no dark shapes and no trace of the blood Shizuo was half-afraid of; if he were relying on vision alone there would be nothing at all to tell him where to go next. But when he breathes in there’s a metallic edge to the air, a hint of bitter spice clinging to the familiar smell of the city, and “He’s here,” Shizuo says without turning around or giving more explanation. “Wait for me.” It’s not until he’s said the words that he realizes how abrupt they sound, that he hears the usual steadiness of his voice undone by the rough edges of panic, and he glances back to Celty, starting on the “Sorry,” demanded by friendship even as everything in his body screams at him to move. “I’m just--”

Celty already has her phone up, the screen angled towards him like a sign. _It’s fine_ , it says, the letters large for him to read without leaning in. _Go find him._

“Thank you,” Shizuo says, and he’s moving, turning to stride down the dark of the alley in pursuit of that licorice tang pressing hot against his tongue.

He can’t run. The scent is too faint, too much of a whisper for him to run without losing it completely; but it’s there, the unmistakable trace of Izaya leading him down the alley and around a corner he didn’t know was there, through a narrow passage and down a flight of stairs. He forgets each space as he passes through it, his feet guided entirely by the ever-increasing trace of Izaya clinging to the air like a trail laid out just for him, like markers dropped in the other’s wake for Shizuo to follow upon his arrival. It’s oddly comforting, in a strange way, as if the farther Shizuo goes the more proof he gathers of Izaya’s existence, like the trace of the other in the air was left deliberately, like Izaya knew he would be coming for him. Shizuo follows the trail without looking around him, without pausing to take stock of his surroundings; and then he’s in front of a door, the metal weight of it against its frame promising some kind of resistance, and the bitter smell of licorice is so strong in the air around him it burns his tongue when he inhales.

He hits the door first. It’s not a knock, and not intended as one; it’s intended as a test, a weight to slam upon the barrier between him and Izaya to see which part is likely to give way first. The door rattles, the frame creaks; and Shizuo curls his fingers tighter against his fist, and braces his feet at the floor, and swings a punch with the full force of his strength behind it. The door bends, the frame gives way in a rain of splintering wood, and Shizuo is stepping forward before it’s hit the floor, is breathing in as himself and breathing out as the monster he is letting himself become. There’s a shape in front of him, a shadow emerging out of the cloud of dust left by the destruction of the door, and Shizuo’s body moves without his thought, instinct reading the breadth of the silhouette's shoulders and the shift of its hair and coming up with _not Izaya_ as a good enough reason to let the strength of his arm swing forward and into the figure’s outline. The body flies backwards, making a brief, broken-off sound of sudden pain as the inertia of Shizuo’s blow forces it sideways to crash against the too-frail support of the wall; but Shizuo’s adrenaline doesn’t care about the other anymore, not with the weight of experience to say the attacker won’t be moving again. He’s looking towards the middle of the room instead, blinking through the clearing dust of the destruction he caused to see the rest of the people around him. There’s another stranger, with hunched-narrow shoulders and the terrified eyes of a frightened animal; and in the middle of the room, his head bowed as he twists his wrist free of the loosened ropes of insufficient bonds, Izaya, breathing and moving and very clearly alive. Something in Shizuo drops into relief, some bone-deep panic easing its hold at the back of his head to grant him some shard of rationality again, and when he looks back to the other man it’s with the capability for speech on his tongue again, with space in his chest for something other than the all-encompassing terror that he has been carrying for the last several minutes.

Not that coherency means he’s likely to be forgiving.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” he growls at the stranger, tipping his chin down and throwing the words at the other while his shoulders hunch onfury, on protectiveness, on building rage that someone, _anyone_ , would have the nerve to lay a finger on Izaya and think to escape Shizuo’s wrath. Shizuo can see the stranger flinch, can see his shoulders collapse in on themselves; but then his spine steadies, his gaze comes up, and when his jaw sets it’s into a line of frustrated petulance instead of the cringing retreat some part of Shizuo expected.

“You _wouldn’t_ remember me,” the stranger snaps, his voice bleeding injured feelings that Shizuo dismisses as easily as the threat provided by the fist the other is making at his side. “ _No one_ remembers me, not after _him_ , not after he _ruined_ me.” He’s gaining speed for his words, spilling them one atop the other like they’re tripping over each other, as if being forgettable is some kind of a burden, as if he hasn’t had precisely what Shizuo has craved with all the ache of impossibility since he was ten years old. “I should have pushed him off the roof when I had the chance.” Recognition flashes into Shizuo’s mind all at once, with the clarity of a lightning stroke grounding out against a long-past memory of Izaya caught against a rooftop fence, of a frightened boy with cringing shoulders skittering away at Shizuo’s approach, at the flicker of warmth in his chest at seeing someone safer for his presence instead of in greater danger.

“I remember you now,” he says, talking over the other’s words without paying attention to whatever rambling illogic he’s spouting now. Shizuo can’t remember his name, but now that he looks the face is faintly familiar, the expression of vicious self-importance the same now as it was in middle school. “You shouldn’t blame other people for your own mistakes.”

The stranger’s expression collapses, the lines of building anger in his jaw settling into the hard edges of determination as his arms tense on threat. “Fuck _you_ ,” he spits, his arm swinging out wide from where his hand has been hidden in his coat, and Izaya screams: “ _Shizuo_ ” tearing past his throat with all-out panic Shizuo has never heard from him before. It’s that that shudders adrenaline through him, that stalls his heart on a surge of panic so strong it locks him still, far more so than the sudden splash of pain at his stomach.

Shizuo blinks, his attention swinging down for a moment. His attacker has a knife in his hand, he sees now; the bright edge of metal must have been hidden in his jacket before for Shizuo to not see it. And he’s stabbed Shizuo, has sunk the blade some inches past the dark of the vest the other’s still wearing; his hand is still locked in a white-knuckled grip around the handle.

“The _fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls, and reaches to close his hand around the other’s wrist and force him back bodily. There’s wet against his skin, the wound spilling blood to soak through his shirt and stick it close to his body, but he doesn’t look down to it; he grabs at his attacker’s shirt instead, lifting him fully off his feet with the same adrenaline that so struck him at the sound of his name like a desperate prayer on Izaya’s lips. He turns sideways, flings the other towards the wall opposite from that crushed by the weight of Shizuo’s first attacker, and Shizuo leaves him to collapse to the floor as he strides towards the middle of the room.

He has more important things to worry about.

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasps, the expletive carried on the shudder of breath that leaves him as he sees Izaya, still half-tied to a chair and with his face paler and eyes darker than Shizuo has ever seen him before but here, alive, breathing right in front of Shizuo and with no imminent danger looming over him. Shizuo’s reflex drops him to his knees, or maybe it’s his strength giving way as it never has before, maybe it’s his preternatural power collapsing under the weight of the concern and horror and _relief_ that surges through him to steal his breath and override his heartbeat. Shizuo’s hand comes out to close at Izaya’s shoulder, and his hold might be too rough but he can’t tell anymore, and he can’t make himself loosen the grip that promises to keep Izaya here, and safe, and with him. “Izaya, _fuck_ , are you okay?”

Izaya blinks. There’s a strange blankness behind his eyes, a complete lack of tension at his mouth; he’s staring at Shizuo as if he’s never seen him before, as if he’s come entirely detached from the world and is drifting away even from Shizuo’s desperate hold at his shoulder. “What?”

“Are you _okay_ ,” Shizuo repeats, the words shattering over the terror clutching at his heart. He doesn’t mean to shake the other, doesn’t mean to jostle him against the chair he’s half-bound to; it’s a reflexive motion, a desperate attempt to hold Izaya still in his own body, to force that terrifying unfocus away from the dark of his eyes. “Izaya, what did they _do_ to you?”

Izaya blinks again. “My hand,” he says, sounding distracted, as if his own well-being is an afterthought, is barely worth remembering. His gaze is sliding down, is clinging to Shizuo’s vest as his forehead creases on confusion Shizuo’s never seen in his face before. “You just got _stabbed_.”

“Huh?” Shizuo says, his attention stumbling over this abrupt change in topic; then he looks down, following Izaya’s focus to the blood clotting itself to dark against the front of his darker vest. “Oh.” He reaches for the tear the knife left in the fabric, collects a trickle of blood against his fingertips; he can feel the injury aching dully, but it’s distant enough that he can easily ignore it. He’s sure he’s done worse to himself with less intention. “Guess I’ll have to get some stitches.”

Izaya makes a tiny sound, the very beginning of a laugh without quite enough force behind it to make it to audibility. “I can’t believe you,” he says, his mouth tugging on a dazed smile like he can’t figure out how he’s meant to react. “You--you’re really going to walk off a knife wound.”

“I’m not going to _walk it off_ ,” Shizuo tells him, looking away from the glazed focus of Izaya’s eyes and down for a moment, to the knots binding the other’s feet against the legs of the chair. It’s easy to fit his fingers into the gap between Izaya’s ankles and the wooden support of the legs, easier still to tug hard enough for the rope to tear like thread and free Izaya’s feet. “I’ll take care of it later.” That just leaves Izaya’s other hand still tied down; Shizuo braces himself, and sets his jaw against the surge of adrenaline that he knows is going to hit him, and turns to really look at the damage.

It’s bad. Shizuo doesn’t know anything about anatomy except what he accidentally discovered as a small child in possession of more strength than his body could bear, but he doesn’t need proper training to recognize the angle of Izaya’s fingers as wrong on such a fundamental level that it knots to horror in his stomach. The pinky is the worst, he thinks, it’s bruised badly enough that Shizuo can see the dark of blood rising to the surface all along the off-center _wrong_ of the bone; but the other two aren’t much better, with Izaya’s ring and middle finger offset from the joint in a way that makes Shizuo’s throat tighten, that makes his chest clench on panic. His stomach twists, his breathing catches; but he reaches for the knot holding Izaya’s wrist down anyway, carefully unfastening the rope from its twist and growling “What _happened?_ ” as a better point of focus than the wail in the back of his mind: _his hand, his_ fingers _, is he going to be okay?_

“I think they’re dislocated,” Izaya says, his voice oddly calm as he watches Shizuo instead of paying any attention to his hand. His mouth is still tugging against that smile; it makes him look soft, warm, affectionate in a way Shizuo can’t recall ever seeing before. “He--he was right, you really are a monster.”

Shizuo looks up to fix Izaya with a glare. “Would you rather I collapsed and left you tied up to wait for them to come to?” he demands, relief taking the upper hand to turn his words lilting over teasing in the back of his throat; but Izaya’s gaze is sliding away from his, the soft of that smile going slack as his eyelashes flutter, as his head falls back against the chair behind him. Shizuo’s stomach drops, panic seizes hard against his spine again, and “ _Izaya_ ” he grates, hearing the name go nearly to a sob in his throat as he reaches out without thinking to catch his hand against Izaya’s tipping head, to press his palm to the chill of the other’s pale skin and fit his thumb against Izaya’s cheekbone. His fingers catch at soft hair, his touch ruffles through the strands, but Shizuo doesn’t have the attention to spare for appreciation at the moment, not with Izaya’s lashes dipping to the weight of unconsciousness, not with the support of his hand the only thing keeping the other from a boneless slump against the chair. “Shit, Izaya, don’t pass out on me.”

Izaya’s mouth shifts, his forehead creases. “I’m not,” he says, blinking hard like he’s fighting himself back to awareness out of pure stubbornness. There’s a moment of effort; then his gaze shifts and his eyes land back on Shizuo’s face with more focus than they had before. His mouth is set into a line, his jaw clenched on irritation that Shizuo recognizes far better than the uncanny softness that was all across his expression before. “I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ fine,” Shizuo snaps, and looks back down to Izaya’s hand still laid slack over the arm of the chair under him. He lets his touch against the other’s cheek go to reach out for Izaya’s wrist instead; his hold is gentle, this time, as careful as he knows how to be, but all the care in the world can’t undo the damage already done. “Your hand is _fucked_.”

“I know,” Izaya says, biting off the words with a faint echo of his usual whip-quick response behind the weight of pain saturating his voice. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Shizuo stares at Izaya’s hand for a moment. His stomach is still dropping; he feels like it has been for minutes, like it’s still toppling through space with no indication of ever hitting ground. Izaya’s littlest finger is visibly broken; Shizuo doesn’t want to even look at it, as if the weight of his consideration can carry enough burden to cause further damage. But the other two are going dark as he watches, the tips of Izaya’s fingers turning to purple-blue mottled over bloodless pale, and all Shizuo can think about is the minutes it will take to get Izaya to Shinra’s apartment and the damage being done with every heartbeat of time that passes with the joints out of alignment as they are.

“Shit,” Shizuo gasps, blinking hard in an attempt to clear the tears blurring his vision, to steady himself for what the frantic desperation of adrenaline tells him he has to do. “You.” He chokes on the words, has to swallow hard to clear his voice. “We have to fix these.”

“I know,” Izaya says, his words echoing distantly behind the roaring of Shizuo’s heart beating too-fast and too-loud in his ears. His unhurt finger tenses, pressing against the arm of the chair like he’s bracing himself. Shizuo can hear the deliberate inhale he takes. “Let me go, I can do it.”

“Don’t be fucking _stupid_ ,” Shizuo grates, looking up to offer a scowl as his eyes burn with tears. “You can’t relocate your own fingers, you’ll pass out.”

“What do you suggest instead?” Izaya asks. The words would be aggressive, in another tone, in another situation; but Izaya’s just gazing at Shizuo, his head tipped back to rest against the support of the chair back and his eyes fixed on Shizuo’s face with a strange, eerie calm, as if it’s someone else’s hand swelling to ugly bruises under Shizuo’s featherlight touch. When he blinks it’s very slow, like he’s struggling with the dark weight of his lashes. “Just leave them to swell until I can get to Shinra’s?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, because he knows the answer, because he knew the answer heartbeats ago, because it’s the panicky awareness of what he has to do that’s burning emotion behind his eyes and blurring his vision at exactly the wrong time. He looks away from the hazy weight of Izaya’s stare, makes himself really look at the ugly angle of Izaya’s dislocated fingers while he braces himself for action. “I’ll do it.”

“Right,” Izaya says, his voice a little bit breathless and a lot strained, like he’s about to laugh or sob or both. “That’s a great idea, Shizu-chan, just go ahead and accidentally tear my fingers off, that’s.” His breath catches, his speech flickering to silence for a moment while he manages another breath. “That’s gonna work great.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo says without thinking about it. He can’t afford the distraction at the moment, not with Izaya’s wrist braced in the tightest hold he can manage and his heart hammering like it’s trying to shatter its way clear through his ribcage. He feels like he’s going to be sick, like all his skin is simultaneously trying to burn and freeze in the grip of horror; but his body is moving on its own to take the need for conscious thought away from him, and he’s never been so grateful for it. He reaches out to close his hold around Izaya’s middle finger, to tighten his grip as hard as he dares against the fragility of bone so close under the skin, and even as he sets his shoulders and takes a breath to brace himself his mind is screaming, is wailing protest at the very idea of someone damaging this, of someone having this kind of elegant beauty under their touch and trying to destroy it. The illogic of it fills his head, hums in his spine, unfurls into his lungs; and then Shizuo breathes out in a rush, empties all the sharp-edged emotion from himself at one go, and moves immediately, before any of it has time to reform. Izaya’s finger shifts in his hold, resisting for the briefest of moments before it gives way to slide back into place; and Izaya _moans_ , the sound raw and low and so overtly sexual that all Shizuo’s thoughts stall as his skin flares into responsive heat. Izaya’s arching off the chair, his head canting back to tense all down the line of his throat, and Shizuo lets his hold on the other’s finger go, his grip falling slack as he stares at Izaya gasping into the most erotic sound Shizuo has ever heard in his entire life. Izaya’s shoulders ease, the tension tight through his body goes slack to drop him back against the support of the chair, and Shizuo is left gaping as Izaya trembles with what looks like nothing so much as orgasmic aftershocks. Izaya’s pain-pale cheeks are flushed with color, his lips parted and lashes dark over his eyes, and Shizuo can’t breathe for how painfully, shockingly hot his entire body has gone. He has a million things to say, suggestion and understanding and startled awareness all at once; but coherency fails him as it always does, collapses into a single bright point of focus, and when he opens his mouth to speak all that comes out is “Izaya,” spilling shocked and soft past his lips. Izaya’s head turns, his eyes opening as he looks to Shizuo, and for the span of a heartbeat they’re staring at each other like that, Izaya trembling through inexplicable arousal in front of Shizuo and Shizuo with the most agonizing, inappropriate hard-on of his entire life. Shizuo can’t think what to say, doesn’t know what to do; and then Izaya blinks, and turns his head away, and sets his jaw like he’s building a wall around himself.

“Do the other one,” he says, his voice low and raw and darker than Shizuo has ever heard it before.

Shizuo imagines forcing Izaya’s finger back into place, thinks about Izaya shuddering under his hold in the grip of unmistakable pleasure. _Is it like that every time_? he wants to ask. _Is it because it hurts? Is it because it helps?_ His memory is skidding over the past, scrambling for traction against this new piece of information; he’s seen Izaya hurt before, seen him white-faced and gasping past the weight of kicked-in bruises against his ribcage and the threat of broken bones and worse, and there wasn’t anything behind the tight-wound pain of his expression except the hurt itself. But he’s seen Izaya shrug off the bruises of Shizuo’s hold too, has seen Izaya laugh at the danger of Shizuo’s clenched fist and purr at the shove of an open palm, and echoing in his ears: _I thought you knew_ , as if Shizuo’s inhuman strength carries such obvious appeal that it doesn’t need stating.

 _Is it because it’s_ me _?_

Shizuo takes a breath. His lungs tremor over the action, his lips tremble with anticipation for words too long left unvoiced. “Izaya--”

“Fix it,” Izaya says, sharper and harder and still without looking back. “Or let me go and I’ll do it myself.”

Shizuo doesn’t know what to do. He has no doubt that Izaya will try to straighten his finger on his own if Shizuo refuses to; he might even succeed, Shizuo isn’t willing to consider anything impossible for the other. But Shizuo’s still breathless with heat, still flushed more than half-hard just on the memory of the sound Izaya offered, of the picture Izaya made, and he wants to help but he doesn’t trust his own judgment in this, not when his whole body is aching with desire to see Izaya look like that again, to hear Izaya sound like that again, to make Izaya react to him like that again. He can’t think, can’t work through the logic or the ethics of his decision; and then Izaya’s mouth tenses, and he drags hard against Shizuo’s hold, and Shizuo’s fingers make the decision for him and tighten of their own accord.

“No,” Shizuo says, and it’s surrender and anticipation at once, his voice giving way to the trembling force of want running through his entire body. “I’ll do it.” His stomach drops, his throat tenses, panic seizes tight all along his spine; but his hold at Izaya’s wrist is tensing, and he’s reaching for Izaya’s other finger, and when he takes a breath he can taste licorice heavy like a promise in the air. “You ready?”

Izaya lets out a breath. Shizuo can feel him brace himself against the chair. “Yes.”

Shizuo moves at once, without hesitating to give either of them time to balk. Izaya’s finger shifts under his hold, the joint dragging for a moment before sliding back into place, and Shizuo can’t help but look up to see the way Izaya’s expression goes slack with heat, to watch the way that helpless groan of satisfaction looks spilling past the desperate tension of Izaya’s clenched teeth. Shizuo huffs an exhale, the sound too faint to be heard over the breathless skid of Izaya’s own reaction, but it still feels like fire on his tongue, like all the years of unacknowledged desire are coalescing to spill to incandescent flame in the dim-lit air around them and illuminate everything into clarity at last. Shizuo can feel his whole body thrumming with heat, can feel the ache of arousal pressing him hard against his pants with every beat of his heart in his chest, and he doesn’t need to look to know Izaya’s hard too, doesn’t need to see the tension straining at the front of the other’s jeans when he can see desire so clear in the flush across Izaya’s cheeks and the curve of his throat as he gasps for air.

It’s very still afterwards. Shizuo lets Izaya’s hand go, drops his grip away from the other’s bruised finger and loosens his bracing hold against Izaya’s wrist into an attempt at casual weight instead of a forceful grip; but there’s nothing casual about the contact now, if there ever was, nothing accidental about the heat radiating off Izaya’s skin to catch against Shizuo’s fingertips. Shizuo’s heart is still pounding on adrenaline, the tension in his body still demanding release, and for a brief moment of complete insanity he thinks about leaning in to press his mouth to Izaya’s, about reaching out to slide his fingers under the fall of the other’s shirt, about unfastening the front of those dusty-dark jeans and pressing his mouth to the tension across Izaya’s stomach, to the sweat-damp of his skin, to the bitter salt of his cock. Izaya might let him, Shizuo thinks, with the echo of heat from his own voice still humming in the air around him; Shizuo could duck his head over Izaya’s lap, could press mouth and lips and tongue to Izaya’s skin and draw those sounds past his lips again, could urge him into shuddering pleasure without need for any pain at all. He wants it, wants Izaya, wants to taste salt on his lips and licorice on his tongue; and then Izaya takes a breath, and Shizuo can feel the moment evaporate even before Izaya says, “I need to see Shinra” with his voice stripped down to blank honesty by pure exhaustion. Shizuo glances at Izaya’s hand, at the joints thankfully back in alignment but still swollen to what must be agony, and he nods, and lets Izaya’s hand go so he can push himself to his feet.

“Celty’s outside,” he says aloud. It’s strange to offer the statement, strange to realize he was standing at the opening of a dark alleyway only a few minutes before; he feels like his whole world has shifted, has remade itself, has oriented itself to a new gravity, a new constant in his universe to go with the understanding still so breathlessly clear in his head. When he reaches out it’s to offer his left hand for support instead of his right, and Izaya doesn’t hesitate in lifting his uninjured hand to close around Shizuo’s. His palm is warm to the touch, his grip folding in around Shizuo’s wrist like it was meant to be there, and Shizuo pulls Izaya to his feet with no effort to the action at all. “She can get you back to Shinra’s faster than we can walk.”

“Yeah?” Izaya says, shifting his hurt hand to hide the bruises across his fingers under the dark edge of his coat. His grip on Shizuo’s wrist tightens for a moment, presses warmth deep under Shizuo’s skin to wrap around the cadence of his heart beating steadily in his chest. “And you’re going to what, exactly, walk across town bleeding from a knife wound?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shizuo says without looking away from the dark of Izaya’s hair and without letting his hold on the other’s hand go. He can still feel the rush of adrenaline in his veins, can still feel the frantic edge on his heartbeat slower to fade than the incoherent anger was; but he just feels heavy, now, as if the gravity of Izaya’s touch is enough to pull him down to a reality he never wants to leave again. “It’s not even bleeding that much.”

Izaya’s lashes flutter, his mouth tugs onto a smile. He doesn’t look up from the front of Shizuo’s vest. “Monster.”

It’s not an insult. Izaya’s mouth is curving on a smile Shizuo can see even with his head tipped forward like it is, and the word comes out as soft and warm as if it’s a confession wrapped up into the simple syllables of the familiar word. Shizuo’s chest aches, his eyes burn, and when he says “Brat” it’s straining over the weight of emotion in him, dragging hard across the worry and concern and love sticking so close to his throat he can’t strip them free even if he tried. Izaya shuts his eyes, ducks his head like he can’t bear the weight of Shizuo’s words, and Shizuo reaches out without thinking and without hesitating to catch Izaya against the wall of his arm, to pull the fragility of the other’s body tight against him. Izaya doesn’t resist and doesn’t pull away; he just lets his forehead land against Shizuo’s shoulder, lets their clasped hands fit between the shared rhythm of their heartbeats, and when Shizuo ducks his head down he can press his mouth against Izaya’s hair, can breathe in deep against that same bittersweet scent that led him here where and when Izaya needed him.

“Fuck,” he sighs, resignation and relief in equal parts in his throat. “You really need a bodyguard, Izaya.”

It sounds like a statement, a simple observation of obvious fact under the circumstances. But Shizuo can feel determination like iron in his veins, and he can feel Izaya’s hand tight in his hold, and when he says the other’s name it tastes like a promise on his tongue.

Next time, he’ll keep Izaya safe himself.


	44. Initiative

The trip back to Shinra’s apartment goes much faster than Shizuo expected. Celty’s motorcycle is faster than he’s ever realized before, weaving them in and out of what little traffic there is on the streets so silently Shizuo feels a little like he’s watching a movie instead of living through real life, and if the engine is struggling to keep up with the speed Celty sets there’s no sign of effort in sound or motion. The seat turns out to be bigger than Shizuo thought it was, with enough space for all three of them to fit together if they press close, and it’s Shizuo who ends up in the middle, with a hand on Celty’s shoulder to steady himself against the sharp swing of the turns they take and Izaya so close against his back he feels like he’s a part of Shizuo more than his own person. He had climbed onto the bike behind Shizuo without any hesitation at all, had pressed in until he was flush against Shizuo’s spine and could slide his good hand around the other’s waist to hold himself in against Shizuo’s body, and then he turned his head in against the other’s shoulder and didn’t move again for the rest of the ride. It seems to only take a few minutes, far less time than it reasonably can given the distance they have to cover, but Shizuo’s heart spends the entire time thudding itself to frantic appreciation inside his chest even as he tries to maintain his balance as much for Izaya’s sake as for his own. Izaya doesn’t shift at all; Shizuo would worry he had passed out except for the tension of that arm holding around his waist and the fingers gripping tight like Izaya’s trying to pull Shizuo closer to him than they already are. It’s an endless distance and far too short at once, and then Celty is pulling up in front of the apartment complex and Shizuo is sliding off the bike, turning back as fast as he moves to catch Izaya’s elbow and steady him over the few feet of distance to the front door. Izaya doesn’t protest this hold, even though he seems to be moving reasonably well even without Shizuo’s help, and Shizuo doesn’t let go even for the elevator ride to Shinra’s floor and the brief walk down the hallway to the front door. He feels a little like Izaya might vanish if he lets him go, might evaporate into the air and out of his reach, and Izaya seems wholly willing to be led by Shizuo’s hold as if by a leash as the three of them make their way to the apartment. Celty steps ahead to unlock the door for them and holds it open for Shizuo and Izaya to go through first, and Shinra’s waiting, smiling bright at the two of them as they step through the doorway.

“You made it!” he says, and moves forward to catch at Izaya’s injured arm before Shizuo has a chance to hiss warning at him. Shizuo’s shoulders tense, his whole body goes taut on worry, but Shinra doesn’t jostle Izaya’s hand at all, just pushes up the other’s sleeve with a brisk efficiency that has him sliding a needle into the other’s arm before Shizuo can find voice to protest.

“ _Hey_ ,” he snaps, but Shinra’s drawing the needle free already and letting Izaya’s arm go so he can pat rapidly along the other’s shoulders and peer into his face.

“You’re not bleeding anywhere, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer either from Izaya or Shizuo; he’s reaching for Izaya’s elbow instead, closing his hand around the other’s arm and tugging him free of Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo has a shiver of irrational panic, baseless worry telling him to keep Izaya as close to hand as he can; but Izaya’s steady on his own feet, and Shizuo doesn’t have a good excuse to keep holding onto him, and then Shinra’s settling him into one of the chairs at the edge of the living room to await more thorough treatment. Shizuo would protest this too, if Shinra gave him a chance for it, but Shinra’s coming back to him, urging him towards the couch at the same time he instructs Shizuo to “take off your shirt so I can get that blood cleaned up.” Shinra’s tone allows for no argument, and even if Shizuo offered any he suspects it would just end in even more of a delay before Izaya gets help, and Izaya looks like he’s okay where he is, even if he’s relying more on the support of the chair than usual and looking far paler than he ordinarily does.

“What did you give him?” Shizuo demands while he’s stripping off his vest and working through the buttons on his bloodstained shirt. “It’s not some weird experimental drug or anything, is it?”

Shinra laughs. This would be more reassuring without the manic edge that always comes with his laughter; as it is Shizuo’s shoulders tense on panic for the moment before Shinra says “No, no!” as he’s moving to shuffle through the array of first aid materials laid out over the coffee table in front of Shizuo. “Just painkillers. I’ll take a look at him when I’m done with you.”

“I’m fine,” Shizuo sighs, but he doesn’t bother offering more protest, just shrugs his shirt off over the couch behind him and tugs off his undershirt to follow. “It’s not even bleeding anymore.”

“Just to be sure!” Shinra soothes, offering a comforting smile that he directs more at the blood clotted against Shizuo’s stomach than for the other’s face. “I’ll clean it up and put a few stitches in and then you’ll be all set.” Shizuo rolls his eyes for this unnecessary concern for his well-being when he’s _fine_ , when he can feel even the ache of the injury fading out of importance in his own awareness, but he still leans back against the couch so Shinra can start wiping the dried blood off his skin. The cloth is cool, almost soothing for the first moment of contact, and then it brushes the edge of the wound itself and the cool flares to heat and sends a wave of stinging hurt up Shizuo’s spine that has him tensing and hissing protest before he can think.

“This really isn’t that bad,” Shinra says with absolute calm and no hint of apology for the burn of the disinfectant he’s wiping across torn skin. “You got off lucky with just a scratch.”

“It’s not just a scratch.” That’s Izaya, speaking from where he’s slouching at the far side of the room; he’s watching them when Shizuo looks over at him, his lashes heavy over his eyes and his gaze as dreamy and detached as his voice. “He got _stabbed_ , it must have been inches deep.” Izaya sounds distracted, like he’s going through the motions of the conversation instead of coming at it with his usual sharp-edged aggression; even as Shizuo watches his lashes dip over his eyes like they’re going heavy, like he’s struggling to keep them open.

Shinra waves a hand without looking up. “This is Shizuo we’re talking about. It’d take a lot more than that to really hurt him.”

“That _does_ hurt,” Shizuo reminds Shinra as the other presses down hard with the stinging cool of the cloth in his hand. “Can’t you be a little gentler?”

“Take some ibuprofen when I’m done,” Shinra tells him, setting the cloth aside and reaching for the needle and thread instead. “I just need to patch you up so I can see what’s wrong with Izaya.”

“His hand is fucked up,” Shizuo says. Shinra threads the needle with businesslike efficiency and leans over Shizuo to start setting stitches at the open tear of the injury. The needle hurts with a duller ache than the disinfectant did, but Shizuo isn’t really thinking about his own pain anymore; he’s looking over instead, to where Izaya has shut his eyes and tipped his head against the chair back behind him. His hand is slack over the arm of the chair, his fingers draped casually against the support as if he’s fine, as if everything is perfectly ordinary; if Shizuo couldn’t see the bruising seeping to dark along Izaya’s pinky and the joints of his ring and middle fingers, he wouldn’t think he was hurt at all. “They broke his finger and dislocated two others.” Shizuo’s memory offers a flare of clarity, the echo of Izaya’s voice breaking wide and desperate over heat; he shoves it back, pins it down hard with present-moment focus until there’s nothing but the color in his cheeks to give him away. “We got them back in place but--”

“You should have left it alone,” Shinra says immediately. He’s not looking up to see Shizuo’s flush; his head is ducked down over the row of neat stitches he’s setting into the line of the injury across Shizuo’s stomach. “His fingers might have been broken and moving them would have made them worse.”

Shizuo’s skin goes cold with panic, with unwarranted fear for _might have_ s that never materialized. “I couldn’t leave them,” he protests, past-tense worry forming itself to the harsh edge of defensiveness in his throat. “He said he’d straighten them himself if I didn’t.”

“He would have passed out from the pain,” Shinra says instantly, as if this is any kind of a comfort to Shizuo’s too-vivid imagination. “ _You_ could probably relocate your own fingers if you needed to, but you’re unusual.” There’s a murmur of sound from the other side of the room, Shizuo thinks he hears the sound of Izaya’s voice; but when he looks over the other is still leaning back against his chair, still has his eyes shut like he’s drowsing more than awaiting medical attention for a broken finger. Shinra doesn’t look up at all; he still has his head bowed over Shizuo’s injury, is still working through stitch after stitch to pin the wound shut.

“He’ll be alright for now,” Shinra says, sounding as offhand about Izaya’s injuries as he did about Shizuo’s. “I’ll splint his fingers as soon as I’m done with you. Let me just finish these stitches and then I’ll get the bandage on.”

“Are you sure he’ll be okay?” Shizuo asks.

“He’ll be fine,” Shinra says, pulling the needle through the last of the stitches. “It’s just a few hurt fingers, no one ever died from that.” He huffs a laugh that isn’t reassuring at all. “At least not _just_ from that.”

“I don’t know if that’s everything,” Shizuo says. “He might be hiding something a lot more serious that I didn’t notice.”

“You worry about him too much,” Shinra tells him as he ties off the stitches and cuts the thread free. “He’s not going to bleed out without one of us noticing, Shizuo.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him if he didn’t get into so much trouble all the time,” Shizuo sighs, looking away as Shinra starts to settle a bandage over the dark of the stitches and the raw red of his injury. Izaya still has his eyes shut, is still leaning back against the chair; he looks exhausted, all the color in his face drained by pain to leave just the shadows of sleeplessness under the dark of his lashes and the soft give of hurt against the curve of his mouth. “He just got _kidnapped_ and _tortured_ , I have every reason to worry.”

“It’s not helping anything right now,” Shinra points out with perfectly logical and perfectly useless calm. “You made it there in time to stop anything too terrible from happening, the best you can do now is let me finish so I can set his finger.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, but he’s not really listening; he’s watching Izaya, frowning at the angle of the other’s shoulders and the tilt of his head against the chair. He really _does_ look pale, his lips are nearly bloodless with lack of color, and the weight of his body is -- and Izaya tips sideways to slump over the arm of the chair, and Shizuo says “Izaya” with what’s left of his breath as he pushes up off the couch and away from Shinra’s work taping his bandage into place. Shinra sighs protest at the interruption but Shizuo doesn’t look back to him; his blood is going cold, his skin prickling into panic as Izaya doesn’t respond. “Izaya,” he says again, and Celty’s turning back from the hallway and Shinra’s looking to follow Shizuo’s attention but Shizuo’s the one who gets there first, who’s reaching out to catch at the angle of Izaya’s shoulder as he snaps “ _Izaya_ ” with all the volume pure panic can give him. He thinks Izaya might be unconscious, has a moment of horror at the slack part of the other’s lips and the weight of his shut eyes; but then Izaya’s lashes shift, and his mouth tenses, and he’s blinking back to clarity as Shizuo leans in over him. He still looks dazed, like he’s fighting for the logic of where he is and why, but then he lifts his head, and meets Shizuo’s gaze, and Shizuo can feel the momentary panic drain out of him as Izaya’s attention comes into focus on his face.

“What--” Izaya starts, but whatever he was going to say cuts off as Shinra steps in at Shizuo’s elbow to push at the dark hair falling across his forehead. Izaya’s head turns to the force, his focus pushed aside as quickly as Shinra shoves at his head; Shizuo can see him blink hard, like he’s lost his bearings again and is struggling to reorient himself.

“I thought you had passed out,” Shizuo says, relief dragging tension from his throat and sapping it from his words at once. “Are you okay?”

“Here.” That’s Shinra, not Izaya, and he pushes hard at Izaya’s head to catch Shizuo’s attention. He’s holding the other’s hair back from his forehead to leave the skin clear for the light, and Shizuo can see the injury even before Shinra’s fingers trail across the swelling against Izaya’s temple, where a bruise so deep it’s only just starting to rise into shades of blue is visible. “They must have hit him before you got there.”

Izaya frowns, but he doesn’t try to turn his head away from Shinra’s touch. “That hurts.”

“What happened?” Shizuo demands, looking back to the half-focused color in Izaya’s eyes as his fingers tighten against the other’s shoulder, as his whole body strains into the adrenaline of renewed panic. “What did they _do_ to you, Izaya?”

Izaya cuts his gaze sideways, his mouth dragging onto the weight of that frown as his eyes focus on Shizuo; he looks irritated, like he’s frustrated by Shizuo’s concern, but his gaze has all the edge it usually does, and that’s far more comfort than otherwise. “He _hit_ me,” Izaya informs them, his gaze sliding away to fix on the far wall again. “Izumii knocked me out on the street and took me to wherever that place was. He broke my finger and then Nakura dislocated the other two and then you came through the doorway like a hero.” He looks sideways again, his eyes dark on anger as he meets Shizuo’s gaze. “Do you want me to review the rest of it, too, or can you remember that on your own?”

“You were knocked out?” Shinra cuts in. He’s frowning at Izaya’s head, his expression intent in a way that prickles the beginnings of concern back down Shizuo’s spine. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Shinra so focused before. “How long?”

“I don’t _know_.” Izaya’s glaring sideways without trying to turn his head, his frown fixed hard at his mouth. “I was _unconscious_.”

“Celty,” Shinra says, and even that sounds distracted, like Shinra can’t spare the attention to give Celty his usual exuberant attention. “What time did you find Izaya’s knife on the sidewalk?”

“It wasn’t long after that,” Shizuo volunteers. His fingers are tightening at Izaya’s shoulder as if the pressure can keep him safe now, can chase off the possible danger of the bruise rising at his temple through sheer force. “I probably found them ten minutes later.”

“Hm.” Shinra looks sideways to consider the message Celty is holding out for him to read. “What time did you run into Izumii?”

“I’m not sure,” Izaya says, his frown fading a little with concentration. “A quarter after eight, probably.”

“He was out for at least twenty minutes.” Shinra look back to the bruise again and frowns focus at it. Shizuo can’t get any kind of a read on his expression, either panic or calm either one. “Definitely concussed, though it’ll be hard to check for dizziness and disorientation until the pain meds wear off.” He draws his hand away to let Izaya’s hair fall back over the shadow of the bruise across his skin. “Did he have trouble walking on your way over here?”

“No, not that he let me see.” Izaya flinches as if from a blow, his gaze sliding away from Shizuo’s to fix on the wall again. “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“No,” Izaya snaps. “It’s _fine_.”

“He’ll probably be fine,” Shinra says, sounding sincere enough that it undoes some of the panicky tension along Shizuo’s spine and lets his fingers unclench from the hold he has at Izaya’s shoulder. “He should have someone keep an eye on him tonight, though.”

Shizuo doesn’t have to think about his answer for that. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay the night at his place.”

“ _Hey_.” Izaya’s voice is sharp, cracking like a gunshot into the air; when Shizuo looks back Izaya’s glaring at him. When he speaks his voice has the sharp edge of a blade. “Who said I wanted to be looked after?”

Shinra starts to answer: “It’s a matter of--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shizuo says, without turning his head or sparing any attention at all for what Shinra was about to offer as response. Izaya’s still glaring at him, vicious self-sufficiency tight along his shoulders under Shizuo’s grip; but his stare is hazy with the bruise at his temple, and his broken finger is still slack against the arm of the chair, and Shizuo has no intention at all of leaving Izaya to take care of himself this time. “I’m taking you home and I’m not leaving until you’re okay.”

Izaya stares at him for a moment. There’s complete silence for a breath, no motion but that of his throat working on a swallow; then: “I see,” he says, his voice taut on some unreadable strain. “So my opinion doesn’t matter?”

It’s not anger behind Izaya’s eyes. Shizuo isn’t sure what exactly it is; it looks a little like a threat, more like a dare, most of all like a plea, like he’s hanging on Shizuo’s response and hoping for the right one. Shizuo isn’t sure what it is Izaya wants from him, doesn’t know what the correct reply would be; so he does what he’s always done, does the only thing he can do, and gives Izaya an honest answer.

“Not this time,” he says.

Izaya doesn’t hesitate at all. “Fine,” he says, and leans back in the chair, his motion sliding his shoulder free of Shizuo’s hold. His eyes are still dark, his gaze still focused; but then he smiles, and tips his head to the side to knock the expression off-center, and Shizuo can feel relief shudder down his spine even before Izaya says “I suppose I’ll let you have your way this time,” with some suggestion of his usual purr on his voice.

Shizuo doesn’t push for more. It’s enough to have Izaya smiling at him, even if the expression is weak and even if his face is still bloodless with the lingering hurt of his injured hand; Shinra is looking to where Celty is bringing more medical supplies from the other room, and reaching for Izaya’s wrist with as much care as even Shizuo could hope for, and all that’s left for Shizuo to do is to move out of the way so Shinra can do what he needs to to realign the broken bones of Izaya’s finger. He lets Izaya’s shoulder go so he can step to the side, but he doesn’t go far, just moves enough to come around the corner of the chair and sit on the floor alongside Izaya. He’s close enough to touch, if Izaya wanted to reach out for him, but Shizuo doesn’t wait; he reaches out on his own, taking the initiative to close his hand gently around the angle of Izaya’s unhurt left hand, to catch the fragile elegance of the other’s fingers inside the protection of his hold. For a moment Izaya’s hand is slack in Shizuo’s, his fingers unresisting and passive to the weight of the other’s touch; and then Shizuo tightens his grip, just enough to press Izaya’s fingers closer together, and Izaya’s thumb shifts in response, sliding against the line of Shizuo’s pinky before settling into place just over his knuckle. The friction is warm, glows comfort out into Shizuo’s body and tenses affection around his heart, and Shizuo doesn’t look away from the comfort of Izaya’s hand safe in his.


	45. Promise

Izaya’s house is very quiet at night.

It’s late enough by the time they arrive that this isn’t a big surprise; Kururi and Mairu are both asleep when they came in the front door, with their bedroom door shut against the dim glow of light from the entryway, and when Shizuo jerked his head in silent question towards the door Izaya had shaken his head and taken the lead up the stairs for Shizuo to follow. He’s less steady on his feet now than he tried to appear on the way to Shinra’s apartment; Shizuo can see Izaya leaning hard against the banister railing as he makes his way up the stairs, and his steps are so slow Shizuo catches up with him before his even halfway to the landing. Shizuo doesn’t say anything, just reaches to catch a steadying hold against Izaya’s right elbow, and Izaya glances sideways at him, raising an eyebrow as he murmurs “You _do_ worry too much, you know.” But he doesn’t shake Shizuo off, and doesn’t stop moving up the stairs, and Shizuo follows at the pace Izaya’s slow steps set and keeps his hold on the way down the hall to the other’s room. It’s not until they’re inside that he lets go, and then only because Izaya tugs his sleeve free so he can reach for the lightswitch; besides, there’s only a few feet from the door to the bed, and Izaya is crossing them without waiting for Shizuo.

“You should change your shirt,” Izaya suggests as he turns to sit at the edge of the bed before starting to work his jacket off his shoulders. “Unless you find bloodstained clothes more conducive to sleep than I do.”

Shizuo looks down at his vest, left unbuttoned over the ragged tear in his shirt and the smear of red dried nearly to brown staining the white. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I should.” He pulls the vest off immediately, folding it with the damp side in before tossing it over the back of a chair; he’s halfway down the buttons on his shirt before he realizes he has nothing to change into and pauses.

“Check the bottom dresser drawer,” Izaya suggests from the bed. He’s not looking at Shizuo; he has his head bowed instead, is smoothing the fur cuff of his coat with more care than the action requires as he lays it across the foot of the bed. “There should be some t-shirts that are big enough to fit you.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says. “Thanks.” He looks back down to his buttons to unfasten what is left of them and shrug off his shirt to join the vest; his undershirt he leaves on while he moves across the floor to the dresser indicated. The room is far cleaner than he remembers it being in high school; there’s nothing on the floor at all, and none of the familiar clutter of homework over the desk. But for the bloodstained fabric of Shizuo’s clothes tossed over the back of the chair the room could be a set for a magazine photograph, with all the appearance of belonging and none of the actuality. It’s like Izaya barely lives here at all, like the room itself is serving as proof that he spends all his free time out wandering the city; it makes Shizuo’s chest tighten uncomfortably, makes him flinch through another image of Izaya alone to face the dangers his pursuits lead him into. He’s frowning when he pulls open the dresser drawer to go through the shirts he’s never seen Izaya wear; it’s not until he’s chosen one at random and shaken the folds out of it that he can let some of his retroactive stress go. There’s nothing he can do about it now that he’s not already doing, and it’s not going to happen again, he’s already decided that much himself. He catches at the edge of his torn and bloodstained undershirt and pulls it up and over his head so he can toss it to join his other clothes, and when he turns around, Izaya is watching him.

There’s nothing particularly notable about the other’s expression. He’s sitting across the sheets of the bed without bothering to pull them back, and he has his legs crossed in front of him and his splinted hand cradled to safety in his lap; but he’s watching Shizuo with complete attention, his eyes dark and unblinking as he stares at the other, and Shizuo feels a shiver of self-consciousness run over his bare skin as if he can feel the weight of Izaya’s gaze like a physical touch.

The new t-shirt is in his hands. It would be a matter of seconds to drag it over his head, to settle the thin barrier of fabric between his chest and shoulders and Izaya’s stare; but Izaya’s gaze flickers up, his eyes meet Shizuo’s, and for a moment Shizuo doesn’t move at all, just stares back at the attention dark behind Izaya’s lashes while his skin flickers itself to electricity all over his body.

“Do you need to change?” he asks, still with the shirt in his hands and Izaya’s focus fixed on his face. “You’re not going to be very comfortable in jeans.”

“No,” Izaya says. His voice is level and unflinching; he doesn’t look away. “I’m not supposed to stay asleep for very long, right? It’ll be easier to wake up this way.”

“Okay,” Shizuo agrees without arguing the point. His heart is pounding hard in his chest; he wonders if Izaya has noticed. He wonders if Izaya’s skin is as flushed-hot as his own feels. He keeps looking at the other for a moment, feels the space between them going tense with unstated understanding; and then Izaya blinks, and his attention slides away from Shizuo’s face and across his shoulder instead, and Shizuo takes a breath and moves to pull the shirt over his head at last. He can feel his shoulders flex with the motion, can feel the whole of his back shift as he’s never noticed it before, like he can feel the weight of Izaya’s attention as if the other’s hands are pressed flush against his spine and sliding across his skin in sync with his motion. He tugs the shirt down over his chest, shrugs against the too-tight fabric over his shoulders, and by the time he turns back around any evidence of the heat rippling through him has faded to at least plausible deniability.

Izaya’s lying face-down across the bedsheets, now, his fixed consideration apparently given over while Shizuo was distracted in getting himself reasonably clothed and easing the taut edge of want from his veins. He has his left arm under his head in place of a pillow, his right hand resting with painful care across the bed next to him; he looks like he’s watching his splinted fingers instead of Shizuo, but he speaks as Shizuo comes forward without turning his head to acknowledge the other’s approach. “That shirt barely fits you, you know.”

Shizuo can feel his cheeks flush with self-consciousness. “I know,” he says, stepping in alongside the bed and dropping to sit on the floor next to where Izaya is lying over the sheets. “It’s the biggest one you have.”

“I’m never letting you borrow my clothes,” Izaya says, sounding a little bit dreamy and mostly amused. “They’ll never fit me right after you stretch them out.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, feeling himself starting to smile in spite of himself as Izaya’s mouth tugs on a hint of amusement as they watch each other. “They’d fit me better if you weren’t so skinny.”

“That’s a very compelling point,” Izaya deadpans. “I’ll get right on that, Shizuo.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. “Grow a couple inches too, while you’re at it.”

“Your wish is my command,” Izaya tells him, his mouth still clinging to the edge of a smile. He shifts his arm and stretches out with his injured hand; Shizuo tenses, about to tell him to stop, but when Izaya bumps his shoulder it’s with his unhurt index finger, just to trace against the seam of the shirt to the curve of the collar against Shizuo’s neck. His gaze trails the movement of his hand, his lashes dipping as his thumb catches to slide just inside the line of Shizuo’s collar, and Shizuo doesn’t look away from the hazy attention behind the shadowed color of Izaya’s eyes. He looks dazed, almost dreamy, and Shizuo is fairly sure that’s at least partially due to the pain medication lacing the other’s veins but he doesn’t flinch away, and even when Izaya blinks back into focus on his face Shizuo doesn’t look away from the other’s gaze. There’s possibility hanging in the air, the force of years of unvoiced affection fitting into the handful of inches between them; but Izaya’s blinking, and he’s drawing his touch back, and Shizuo doesn’t reach out to catch his hand to hold it still.

“You’re going to wake me up in an hour?” Izaya asks, sounding like he’s halfway to sleep already, or maybe just dazed past the point of clear speech.

“Yeah,” Shizuo confirms. “I’ll stay awake.”

“You had better,” Izaya tells him. “I’d hate to fall into a coma because you dozed off on the job.”

Shizuo huffs the very beginning of a laugh; it’s the best he can muster under the circumstances, with his whole body aching with exhaustion and his chest still tight on relief and concern in equal parts. “I won’t,” he promises. He leans back to rest his shoulders against the wall behind him, to settle himself comfortably for a long night of watchfulness instead of rest. “Go to sleep, Izaya. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

The words feel like a vow on his lips.


	46. Space

“The bedroom’s on the second level,” Izaya says, taking the lead around a corner as they move through downtown Ikebukuro. “And then there’s space for a couch and a workspace and a kitchen on the main floor.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says to Izaya’s shoulders, making no more effort to keep the skepticism from his voice than the grin from his face. “And a host of maids to wait on you hand and foot as needed, right?”

“Just one.” Izaya tips his head to look back over his shoulder; his smile flashes bright in the afternoon sunlight and catches to flecks of red behind the dark of his eyes. “And only once a week to keep things tidy.” He looks forward again, skipping ahead by a pair of steps as if his energy is running too high to allow for more sedate forward motion. “I’ll have you to look after me otherwise.”

“I’m your _bodyguard_ , not your valet,” Shizuo informs the sharp angle of Izaya’s shoulders under his jacket. “Unless my responsibilities expanded without you telling me?”

“I thought you’d be happy to hear it,” Izaya says. “You’ve been trying to mother me since we were in middle school, after all.”

“Only because you’re incapable of looking after yourself,” Shizuo tells him.

Izaya hums thoughtfully. “You know, Shizu-chan, of the two of us--”

“Don’t call me that.”

“--Of the two of us, _I’m_ the one who is now in possession of a living space outside my parents’ roof.” Izaya pivots on a heel sharply enough that his jacket catches and flares around him; his head tips to the side, his smile tugs hard at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t that make me the more capable one here?”

“Only if you actually own this fabled apartment,” Shizuo tells him. “We’ve been going in circles, when are you going to admit you’re lying and let us go get some lunch?”

“I’m not lying,” Izaya says. “I would never lie to my best friend.”

“You _so absolutely_ \--”

“Here,” Izaya says, turning sharply again without looking to face one of the gates lining the sidewalk they’ve been walking down. Shizuo blinks and looks up, his attention bringing the previously-ignored building into clarity as what appears to be an apartment complex. “This is me.”

It definitely _looks_ expensive. The building is surrounded by offices, the sides rising high enough to imply the expense Izaya has been bragging about all morning. Shizuo can see the glint of sunlight off windows, the reflection of the light turning the transparent glass to the privacy of a mirror for the occupants; and Izaya is stepping forward to push open the gate left-handed as he reaches into his pocket with the right. He pauses on the front pathway, looking back over his shoulder with that smirk still clinging to his lips; he’s still holding the gate open, his arm drawn out into an elegant line as if he’s posing for an audience that doesn’t exist. “Coming, Shizuo?”

“You don’t live here,” Shizuo says, but he’s stepping forward anyway, reaching to catch the weight of the gate from Izaya as he moves. Izaya lets his fingers slide away, holding to the curve of his smile as he turns towards the front doors of the building’s lobby, and Shizuo follows him as the gate swings shut behind them. “This is ridiculous, you can’t _possibly_ make enough money to live here.”

“I’m wounded,” Izaya says without turning around as they pass through the front doors and into the lobby. “Did you think I was risking my safety and well-being on a regular basis for something less than this?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says immediately. “You do risky things all the time just to make me worry.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. The elevator beeps its arrival as the metal doors slide open and Izaya steps into the space. “That _is_ a benefit.” Shizuo follows him in and Izaya reaches out with his left hand to push the buttons for one of the topmost floors. “You don’t carry _quite_ that much weight in my life decisions, though.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes instead of answering. The elevator doors slide shut on them, the machinery whirs softly into action; the acceleration is so smooth Shizuo can barely feel it. Izaya looks perfectly comfortable at the other corner of the elevator, as if this is the dozenth and not the first time he’s been here, and for just a moment Shizuo’s distrust flickers and tries to form into sincere consideration of the present possibility.

“You don’t _actually_ live here,” he says. “Do you?”

Izaya tips his head to meet Shizuo’s gaze, his eyelashes dipping heavy over his stare; but he just smiles instead of answering, like he’s holding a secret behind the curve of his mouth, and then the doors start to slide open and he’s unfolding from the corner to take the lead down the hallway with that same self-confident stride. Shizuo follows, his pulse coming faster on uncertainty that rises higher with every step they take, until by the time Izaya stops in front of one of the doors Shizuo is hardly surprised at all by the shine of the key the other pulls from the pocket of his coat.

“Oh my god,” he says as Izaya fits the key into the lock and turns to unlatch the heavy _click_ of the deadbolt. “You actually _do_ live here.”

“And it only took you all day to believe me,” Izaya says. He frees the key from the door to replace it in his pocket and pushes the door open with his other hand; when he turns back it’s to cut a smile at Shizuo before gesturing expansively towards the open entrance. “Be my guest.” Shizuo looks at the angle of Izaya’s arm, the tilt of his head, the curve of his smile; and then he turns, and steps forward, and comes through the doorway of Izaya’s new apartment.

It’s enormous. It’s the first thing Shizuo notices, even with the array of pristine furniture laid out in aesthetically appealing orientations around the space; the whole bottom floor is expansive, open to his view in a way entirely unlike the twists and turns of the hallways in his family’s home. The windows are striking as well; they fill a full wall of the apartment in a sleek line of glass that leaves the glitter of the city as open to view as the blue of the clear sky bright overhead. There are bookshelves lining one whole wall, a staircase curving up towards the promised second story, and everything Shizuo looks at is clean and beautiful and as pristinely unlived-in as an expensive hotel room.

“Oh my god,” he says again from the edge of the entryway where he’s stopped. “I don’t fucking _believe_ this.”

“I told you I was telling the truth,” Izaya purrs from behind him.

“That wasn’t going to make me listen to you.” Shizuo toes off his shoes without looking away from the stunning view in front of him and takes a step forward into Izaya’s apartment with his attention still fixed on the room. “This is _unbelievable_.”

“Oh good.” The door shifts and swings back into place behind Shizuo as Izaya follows him into the space. “If it’s the apartment you object to and not my own trustworthiness my injured feelings may someday recover.”

“As if you have feelings at all.” Shizuo steps across the space of the room, moving towards the shine of sunlight glinting off the enormous windows in front of him as if he’s being pulled by a leash. “How do you keep these clean?”

“I pay someone.” Izaya sounds completely unconcerned, like he was expecting the question and already had his answer ready to hand. “Or I will. I’ve only been moved in for a day and a half, Shizuo, I haven’t yet managed to completely sully everything in sight.”

Shizuo looks back at that, his attention pulled away from the view out of Izaya’s apartment windows and back to the other himself. Izaya’s still standing by the door, leaning alongside the entryway with the tension of a smile caught at the corner of his mouth; he looks a little bit amused and mostly pleased, as if he’s gaining as much satisfaction from watching Shizuo in his apartment as from the apartment itself. It makes Shizuo smile, aware even as the expression breaks across his face that it looks softer than usual, and Izaya’s smile goes wider in response, catching tension at the very corners of his eyes and skipping Shizuo’s heartbeat on affection before he can even consider trying to restrain it.

He looks away again, back across the ridiculous span of the apartment, and moves forward towards the rows of bookshelves alongside the desk. “I didn’t know you had this much stuff.” The books are unfamiliar when he draws close enough to read them, to touch his fingers to uncreased titles and undented spines that never existed in the narrow space of Izaya’s old bedroom. “Where were you keeping all this?”

“I bought it.” Izaya’s still watching Shizuo when the other looks back at him, still leaning against the doorway to the apartment. He has his hands clasped behind his back; the position makes him look strangely uncertain, as if he’s aged backwards by a handful of years to a middle schooler more insecure in himself than Shizuo has ever known Izaya to be. “I had it delivered and unpacked before I moved in.” One of his shoulders comes up into a careless shrug, as if the furnishings of his life are wholly unimportant. “Most of this is as new to me as it is to you.”

Shizuo frowns. “That must be weird,” he says. When he looks up he can see the railing running along the second floor, can see the shadows of what must be the loft bedroom Izaya mentioned on the way over. He wonders if the bedroom is any more recognizable than the rest of the apartment, if any of the furniture he remembers from Izaya’s room made the move to this enormous, sunbright space. “Like you moved into a stranger’s home.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Izaya sounds careless, his words more sincere than usual; when Shizuo looks back at him he’s still watching from his position at the doorway. “I own it now, it’ll become familiar soon enough.” His hands ease, his arms falling to his sides as his pose collapses into comfort, and when he smiles it flashes to warmth behind his eyes for a moment. “Besides, some things are still the same.”

Shizuo blinks. Izaya is still standing in the doorway, the room is still overlarge and unfamiliar around them; but his words fall into the quiet like stones into a pool, the ripples cast by the sound of his voice enough to undo what Shizuo thought he saw in the surface. The new furniture, the enormous windows, the echoing space; for just a moment all that fades away, and all that’s left is an apartment caught around the two of them, Shizuo standing in the middle of the room and Izaya gazing at him from the doorway with the comfortable weight of his jacket -- the jacket Shizuo gave him -- wrapped around his shoulders like a promise of what they have always been to each other, like a sign of what they could become. The apartment belongs to Izaya, doesn’t even deserve the title of _home_ yet, with the crisp edges of newness still on everything in the space; but for just a moment Shizuo takes a breath, and lets his imagination print the taste of licorice into the catalog-clean smell of the air, lets himself think about the smell of his cigarettes clinging to the corners of the room instead of the clean cold of dustless walls.

It’s just a fantasy, and just for a moment; but Shizuo thinks making this impersonal apartment a home would be easy to do, if he’s with Izaya.


	47. Healed

It’s halfway through his first day that Shizuo decides that he isn’t cut out to be a bodyguard.

It’s not that he lacks the ability. He certainly has the strength to offer any kind of protection Izaya could need, and his reflexes are quick enough that he could stop any kind of violence before it even approached sincerely life-threatening. His reputation is some help too, he suspects; Shizuo saw the flicker of shock in the stranger’s face when Izaya had waved a hand in Shizuo’s direction and said “And of course you recognize Heiwajima-kun,” had seen the widened eyes that said yes, he did better than spoken agreement would. Shizuo doesn’t know if the other man would have been as polite with just Izaya, suspects he certainly wouldn’t be as deliberately careful with his actions; but that’s not what bothers him. What seemed easy enough in hypotheticals -- go with Izaya in his wandering around the city to keep him safe from any of the numerous groups who wish him ill -- is something else entirely when Shizuo is standing in an enclosed room with nothing to do except watch Izaya maneuver through a conversation and wonder if the next sentence is going to bring about a sudden burst of violence. There’s no sign of it from the other man -- in fact he seems to be spending as much time eying Shizuo as listening to what Izaya is saying to him -- but Shizuo’s imagination is too vivid in this, and he spends the entire quarter-hour they spend in the unfamiliar office going over possible scenarios and trying to determine how badly Izaya might get hurt before Shizuo could cross the distance to him. By the time Izaya is pushing to his feet and offering a handshake and thanks for the conversation Shizuo’s shoulders are cramping with the expectation of violence he’s been holding back, and it’s hard for a moment to blink back visions of injury enough to believe that Izaya really is completely unhurt in front of him. Izaya turns away from the man still hunched into passivity in his chair, glances sideways at Shizuo as his mouth quirks on a smile, and then says “Pleasure working with you,” in a lilting chirp as he moves for the door. Shizuo follows in his wake, interposing his shoulders between Izaya and the stranger; it’s not until he’s formed a wall between the two of them that the adrenaline taut along his spine eases its grip on his body, and not until the door clicks shut behind them that he can manage a full breath of air again. Izaya keeps his lead down the hallway and out to the front door leading onto the street, and it’s while Shizuo is stepping through the entrance and out onto the sidewalk that he clears his throat to speak.

“So,” he drawls, pulling the vowel long and lilting in a way that tenses Shizuo’s shoulders against the teasing to come even before he hears what Izaya is going to say. “Are you planning on terrifying everyone I work with into submission before they even have the idea to do me any harm? Just for future reference, you see.”

“I wasn’t--” Shizuo starts before cutting himself off from offering a denial that they will both know is as good as a lie. “I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s not a surprise,” Izaya tells him, watching Shizuo sideways through the fall of his hair as he visibly fights back a smile. “You didn’t look like there was much conscious thought at all in your head. I didn’t know you _could_ be that threatening and still hold yourself back, I’m honestly impressed.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, feeling his cheeks go hot as Izaya spills the bright of a laugh into the autumn-cool air. He reaches into his pocket for his box of cigarettes and fishes one free while his face is still burning with embarrassment. “It’s not that I thought he was actually going to try something. I was just thinking about the possibility.”

“You might as well have been shaking a fist in his face,” Izaya informs him. “Do we need to give you time to calm down with a cigarette break before we go in to keep you from terrifying all my clients?”

“I’m sorry,” Shizuo tells him, neither sounding nor feeling very sincere about it. He pulls the lighter from his pocket and flicks it into flame, cupping his hand around the heat to protect it from the wind as he lights the end of his cigarette. “Give me a break, it’s my first time doing this. I’ll get better with practice.”

“I hope so.” Izaya reaches out towards Shizuo’s face with his right hand; for a moment Shizuo thinks he’s aiming to tug the cigarette away and leans back and away in reflexive retreat. But Izaya’s fingers curl around his wrist instead, skimming across the bare skin just past the cuff of the familiar uniform Shizuo has gone on wearing out of habit rather than necessity, and when Shizuo’s hand tips out in involuntary surrender to the other’s touch Izaya’s hand slides up across his palm, his fingers trailing electricity over Shizuo’s skin for a breathless moment. Shizuo’s fingers relax, his grip goes slack; and Izaya closes his hold around the lighter and tugs the weight of it free of Shizuo’s grasp with a flash of a smile to catch the sunlight and Shizuo’s attention at once. “Though I guess if you intimidate my customers and put me out of my job you’re preventing the danger that comes with it too.” He twists the lighter in his fingers, braces his fingers against the side and catches his thumb at the trigger to light a flicker of flame before the wind of their forward movement gusts it out.

“Give that back,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to make what he knows already is a weak attempt at reclaiming the lighter. Izaya doesn’t even bother stepping away; he just lifts it up over his head, still offering a smirk to go with the sparkle of his gaze lingering at Shizuo’s face.

“I’m putting you on probation,” he declares, sliding his hand free when Shizuo makes an attempt to catch his wrist and reclaim the glint of the lighter from Izaya’s fingers. His skin is hot to the touch, as glowing-bright as if he’s carrying fire under his skin as well as in his fingers, and Shizuo knows he isn’t even making a plausible attempt at retrieving his property anymore and he doesn’t care, not when Izaya is grinning as brightly as he is. “You’ll have to prove yourself as an effective bodyguard if you want to keep your position, Shizu-chan.”

“Or what, you’ll fire me?” Shizuo asks. “And don’t call me that.”

“That’s right.” Izaya tosses the lighter from one hand to the other, summarily ending Shizuo’s attempt at retrieving it before he slides it into the far pocket of his jacket. Shizuo thinks he could probably drag it free by force if he put his attention to it, but Izaya’s smiling as if he’s just won some crucial victory and Shizuo can’t fight back the answering happiness glowing all across his face. “You don’t want to miss out on all those hours you spend in my fancy apartment, do you?”

“Like I wouldn’t be over all the time anyway,” Shizuo says, and reaches out to ruffle a hand through Izaya’s hair. Izaya tips under the force, laughing as he bumps hard against Shizuo’s side, and Shizuo has to fight back the urge to let his arm fall around Izaya to hold the other close against him. He settles instead for letting his hand catch at Izaya’s shoulder for a moment before letting his arm fall, trailing his touch against the back of the other’s coat as he goes. “You can barely feed yourself when I’m not around.”

“I do just fine, Shizuo,” Izaya tells him. He still has his hand in his pocket; Shizuo thinks he might still be turning the lighter over in his fingers. “Let’s go back and you can make me lunch.” Shizuo rolls his eyes at the assumption of the statement, but he doesn’t offer any protest around the warm glow of happiness in his chest.

Even if he looks for it, he can’t see any trace of awkwardness in the movement of Izaya’s healed fingers.


	48. Unfocused

Shizuo enjoys Izaya’s apartment.

It’s comfortable, spacious and airy in a way that belongs more on the cover of a magazine than an actual space anyone he knows lives in. The thermostat is turned up warm to combat the chill in the air that comes with the first beginnings of winter, and the couch is bigger even than Shizuo’s bed and comfortable with expensive softness. Shizuo thinks he might like to spend his free time here just for that, even if it weren’t for the primary reason that brings him across the city every morning and keeps him here until late in the evening and sometimes through the nights, too, sleeping on the soft of that couch with his vest as a blanket he doesn’t need against the warmth of the air. Those nights are the best, he thinks, even if he lies awake for what feels like hours listening to Izaya stirring through restless sleep alone in the bedroom above and wakes to the first early rays of dawn breaking through the windows; they might not grant him enough sleep, but they give him what is far more valuable, an evening and a morning unbroken by the necessity for goodbyes or greetings and the flash of Izaya’s grin almost as soon as he stirs. Shizuo likes to pretend, sometimes, that he lives here in truth, that the space so rapidly becoming familiar with each passing day is his as much as Izaya’s, that there’s no need at all for them to ever be apart no matter how far into the future he considers.

He’s thinking of that now, in the back of his head, while he lies on his stomach and idly skims the pages of the manga volume he brought with him this morning; the chill of outdoors has long since faded from his skin, until all that is left when he breathes in is the suggestion of smoke in the air, the print of his own cigarettes in the space of Izaya’s home as clear as the everpresent tang of licorice the other carries on his skin. He’s hardly reading the panels in front of him at all; his attention is elsewhere, lost in a half-formed daydream of some reality sweeter even than this one, when Izaya’s voice cuts sharply through his thoughts.

“I can’t believe you’re still reading manga,” he says, pitching his voice loud so it carries clearly across the width of the living room from where he’s sitting in front of his computer. “Isn’t that the same series you used to read in middle school?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says. It is -- he’s impressed Izaya remembered -- but he doesn’t look up from the page to acknowledge this point, just keeps his gaze fixed on the panels even though his attention is well and truly absent, now. “What I do in my free time doesn’t affect you, stop complaining.”

“It matters when you’re taking over my apartment to do it,” Izaya informs him. “Aren’t you old enough to have a place of your own by now?”

“Yeah.” Shizuo gives up on reading the chapter -- he’s lost all focus on it anyway -- and looks sideways instead, turning his head to see the way Izaya is watching him from across the distance of the apartment. Izaya’s eyes are dark under his lashes, his smile taut at his lips; he has his elbow braced against his desk and his head propped on his hand, as if there’s nothing more entertaining for him to be watching than Shizuo. Shizuo lets his voice drop into a growl, attempting a show of irritation he doesn’t feel. “I would, too, if my employer actually paid me instead of just talking about it.”

“That’s harsh, Shizu-chan,” Izaya purrs. Shizuo rolls his eyes at the nickname and looks back to the same manga page he’s been not-reading for minutes, now. “When I’m practically giving you a place to live in exchange for the pleasure of your company for a few hours a day, why would you need an apartment of your own?”

Shizuo can feel his mouth tug onto a smile at this echo of his own thoughts, feels the reassurance of the words like sunlight against the back of his neck. He keeps looking down at the manga. “I dunno,” he says, letting the words drawl long and teasing in his throat. “It’s just that my best friend won’t leave me alone about it.”

“Aww,” Izaya says, sympathy heavy and feigning on the sound. “Sounds like a jerk.”

Shizuo’s mouth drags onto a smile. “I know.” He looks back over; Izaya’s leaning far back in his chair, now, and has one foot up against the edge of the desk to rock himself idly back and forth. Shizuo catches the other’s gaze and holds it as he continues. “He’s always been like this.”

“You should get yourself better friends,” Izaya says, and then, immediately, before Shizuo can even reach for a protest: “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess holding onto even one friend is doing well for a monster like you.”

Shizuo snorts amusement. “Are you back to that?” Izaya breaks into a laugh, his expression lighting up into delighted entertainment as he kicks himself into a spin, and Shizuo ducks his head back over his manga to half-hide the warmth of the smile at his lips. He can hear the chair squeak as Izaya gets to his feet, can hear the soft sound of the other’s footsteps padding towards him, but he doesn’t look up, just listens to the tells of Izaya’s approach while gazing blankly at the manga in front of him.

“Of course I am.” Izaya lilts the words like they’re some memorized poem, something so often repeated they’ve taken on the rhythm of meaninglessness from overuse. Shizuo can hear him coming closer, is bracing himself for fingers in his hair or trailing against the line of his back; but when the touch comes it’s at his pocket instead, a catch and drag that has his cigarettes sliding free and in Izaya’s hold before Shizuo can react enough to turn and grab for them. Izaya darts backwards and out of reach without looking where he’s going, his steps carrying him around the edge of the coffee table and back to the far side of the couch as Shizuo pushes himself up on his elbows; he’s grinning all across his face, like laying claim to Shizuo’s cigarettes is some major victory for him. “You don’t get to become human just because you’ve been behaving yourself for a few months, you know.”

Shizuo frowns. “Give those back.”

“Hm.” Izaya drops his mouth into a pout of consideration, looking down at the box as he pushes it open and slides a cigarette free with startling grace. The box he throws at Shizuo without warning; Shizuo snatches it out of the air reflexively, but Izaya is already catching his lips around the end of the cigarette and speaking around the obstruction as he reaches into his pocket. “You’ll need to find yourself a princess willing to kiss you in order to turn you into a real human prince, Shizu-chan.”

“Stop calling me that,” Shizuo says, although the words lack any force to stand against the distraction of Izaya’s lips pursed against the cigarette and the lilt of his voice over _a princess willing to kiss you_ , as if Shizuo cares at all about the idea of kissing anyone but the person right in front of him. “And don’t smoke my cigarettes.”

“You’re so pushy today,” Izaya says, pulling a lighter from his pocket and flicking it open in the same gesture. The silver case is familiar, Shizuo’s not surprised to see; he long since gave up any hope of keeping lighters to himself when Izaya’s around. Izaya doesn’t look up at him; he keeps his gaze cast down as he braces his free hand at the base of the cigarette to hold it steady as he lifts the open flame to the paper. “What happened to your usual kindness and generosity?”

“ _You_ started picking a fight,” Shizuo tells him, but his heart isn’t in the retort. He’s caught by Izaya’s fingers instead, his attention tangling around the shift of the other’s hold against the edges of the lighter printed over as thoroughly with Izaya’s fingerprints as with Shizuo’s own. He can imagine the fit of those fingers in his own, can imagine the slide of Izaya’s touch against the back of his neck, through the weight of his hair, over the rush of his pulse at the inside of his wrist. He wants to reach out, to slide the lighter from Izaya’s grip, to replace the frictionless cool of the metal with the warmth of his mouth, with the weight of his lips pressing to the line across Izaya’s palm and catching damp against the individual joints of those delicate fingers. He can feel the want flicker in his veins, can feel heat rising along his spine as if he’s catching alight himself, as if the shift of Izaya’s fingers is drawing fire into him as much as it is flaring the spark of the lighter. Then there’s a flash of movement, the _click_ of the lighter snapping shut under Izaya’s touch, and a cloud of smoke in Shizuo’s face as Izaya exhales, the haze blurring his too-clear vision as Izaya slides his hand and the lighter back into his pocket. Shizuo blinks against the burn of the smoke in his eyes, trying to clear his vision and focus his thoughts at once, and Izaya creases his forehead in consideration, making a show of thought as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth.

“Hm.” Izaya’s fingers brace against the cigarette, his lips purse against the edge of it; he flutters his lashes as he takes an inhale, holding it for a long moment before blowing it out in a curl of smoke into the air. Shizuo can feel the desire to catch that smoke on his lips like a physical pressure against his lungs. “These are _terrible_.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to pull the cigarette away from Izaya’s lips, or maybe to press his fingers to the soft pout of them instead, he’s not sure which. Izaya lifts it away, holding it out of Shizuo’s reach as he glances sideways through his lashes at the other. “You don’t even smoke, how would you know?”

“Instinct,” Izaya tells him, his mouth curving around the taut of a smile as his voice lilts into flirtatious amusement. “I can always count on you to have terrible taste in everything.”

“Including friends, apparently.” Shizuo pushes against the couch to come up onto his knees and give himself the added reach of height to make a grab for the cigarette caught between Izaya’s fingers. Izaya laughs and leans back, falling against the arm of the couch to keep his hand out of range of Shizuo’s reach; the position makes an invitation of his body, leaves him angled into languid elegance against the support. Shizuo’s throat goes tight on heat, his breathing shapes itself around the beginnings of a groan, and when he reaches out it’s to hold at Izaya’s shoulder, to pin the other still where he’s lying as Shizuo leans in over him. The cigarette is still in Izaya’s fingers, and it’s still the cigarette that Shizuo is reaching for; but for a moment they’re pressed together, Shizuo’s weight bearing Izaya back against the couch to hold him still while he makes an ungraceful attempt to reclaim the cigarette. His fingers are catching at Izaya’s hand, sliding over the other’s wrist, but all his attention is against the rhythm of Izaya’s breathing against him. For a moment he can feel Izaya’s heartbeat in harmony with his own, for a breath he can fill his lungs with the bite of licorice; and then he has the cigarette in his fingers, and he’s pulling it free and falling back to collapse against the couch while his pulse speeds itself into a frenzy of sudden adrenaline.

“Brat,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think to offer with his heart racing like it is and his whole body running electric on the heat of Izaya pressed against him, on the feel of Izaya pinned back to the couch under him. He brings the cigarette to his lips more on reflex than with intent; the paper is faintly damp against his mouth when he takes an inhale. Shizuo imagines he can feel a spark of heat still lingering from Izaya’s lips, pretends he can taste a bittersweet edge to the smoke that has nothing to do with nicotine, and when he glances at Izaya the other is staring at his mouth, his lashes heavy over his eyes and his lips barely parted on distraction. He looks unfocused, like he’s lost track of his surroundings in a way Shizuo has never seen him do before, as if the familiar sight of Shizuo smoking has somehow tripped his mental focus out-of-balance and he hasn’t brought it back together yet.

Shizuo’s heart skips, his shoulders tense; when he speaks it’s gently, as casually as he can to not chase away the brief sincerity of the moment with acknowledgment. “Don’t take my stuff just to complain about it.” He takes an inhale off the cigarette, holds the bitter heat of the smoke inside his chest for a moment; and then he exhales, and lets the smoke escape into the air, and Izaya blinks and catches a breath and comes back to himself all at once. The softness in his eyes flickers, the give of his mouth tenses and vanishes, and then he’s himself once more, quirking the teasing curve of his lips at Shizuo and with his eyes sparkling too bright for any hope of pinning them down to honesty. But Shizuo has electricity rushing through his veins, and licorice bitter as smoke on his lips, and even Izaya can’t hide forever.

When he’s ready to let himself be caught, Shizuo will be waiting for him.


	49. Pressure

“Hurry _up_ ,” Izaya calls back from the door to the lobby of his apartment building. “Can’t you finish that inside?”

“Not until we get to your room,” Shizuo tells him. “The halls are no-smoking, you know.”

“No one’s here anyway,” Izaya informs him. “No one will notice and even if they did they wouldn’t know it was you.”  
“It’s the principle of it,” Shizuo says. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“You’re the worst bodyguard,” Izaya says. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched in; when he huffs a breath Shizuo can see it cloud to steam in the winter chill of the air. “You chase off my customers and then you waste my valuable time, isn’t that the opposite of what you’re meant to do?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo says. “You’re the one who hired me, you tell me.”

“I _am_ ,” Izaya says. “I’m telling you right now. You’re terrible at your work, Shizu-chan.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo tells him. “Or I’ll stay out here for another cigarette too.”

“I’ll leave you alone then,” Izaya says, but he doesn’t push the nickname and he doesn’t leave; he stays where he is, leaning against the support of the doorway with his jacket pulled tight around his shoulders. Shizuo looks over at him but Izaya’s not watching him; he has his eyes shut and his head tipped against the frame of the door like he’s drowsing or too tired to keep it up. His mouth is soft, is dipping into a faint frown of discomfort; as Shizuo watches he shifts his shoulders like he’s trying to get comfortable, or trying to hunch in closer against the bite of the wind. It doesn’t feel that cold to Shizuo -- he’s not even wearing a jacket, and his hands are as warm as the rest of him -- but there’s a flash of guilt at the back of his thoughts as he looks at Izaya waiting for him in the doorway.

“Fine,” he says, looking down so he can fish the envelope out of his pocket. There’s still almost half of his cigarette left but he doesn’t bother taking another drag; he just stubs out the ember against the inside of the envelope and lets what remains of the cigarette fall into it before he replaces it in his pocket. “Let’s go inside.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Izaya groans, and turns to retreat to the inside of the lobby while Shizuo is still striding up the pathway to the front of the building. Shizuo catches the door before it swings back to hit Izaya’s shoulder and Izaya moves straight towards the elevators, only reaching out long enough to push the button on the control panel before returning his arms to their tense cross over his chest. The doors slide open and Shizuo follows Izaya inside, reaching out to push the button for their floor before Izaya moves.

Shizuo clears his throat as the elevator jerks into motion to pull them up over the intervening floors to Izaya’s room. “Sorry,” he says, watching Izaya sideways from under the weight of his hair. “I didn’t realize you were cold. You should have said something.”

“I’m not cold,” Izaya tells him without unfolding the protective angle of his arms over his chest. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“We could have taken a taxi,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya’s head is ducked forward, his hair is falling off the back of his neck; Shizuo’s fingers itch to stretch out and press warmth against the curve of bare skin over the soft fur of the other’s collar. “It would have saved us a walk.”

“I’m fine,” Izaya says again, without looking at Shizuo. “I just didn’t want to wait with you looking like a delinquent in front of my apartment building.”

Shizuo’s mouth twitches on amusement. “But you don’t mind walking downtown with me looking like a delinquent?”

“Of course not.” The doors open and Izaya steps out into the hallway without hesitating to make sure Shizuo is following him. “You looking intimidating is exactly what you’re supposed to do as my bodyguard.”

“Good to know,” Shizuo says, trailing Izaya down the hall to the door of the other’s apartment. “Anything else in my job description you want to tell me?”

“I’ll mention it as it comes up,” Izaya says, glancing up through his hair at Shizuo as he unlocks the door to the apartment. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; Shizuo just catches a glimpse of it before Izaya is pushing the door open and stepping into the entryway. “There’s nothing you need to worry about until I tell you to.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo drawls, following Izaya inside and pushing the door shut behind them. “It’s always good to know what my job responsibilities entail.”

“Surprises keep things interesting,” Izaya informs him, slipping his shoes off at the edge of the tiled entryway before shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it at the hooks along the wall. “I’d think you could appreciate that.”

“Not like it makes a difference.” Shizuo toes his shoes off alongside Izaya’s and comes forward to follow the other towards the couch. “You won’t tell me anyway.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “You know me too well.” He steps over the back of the couch rather than taking the time to come around the corner; Shizuo takes the longer route, approaching to sit next to Izaya as the other draws his feet up next to him and leans back against the support of the cushions. Izaya tips sideways as soon as Shizuo sits down, his shoulder pressing hard against the other’s, and Shizuo lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he works his arm free to drape along the back of the couch over Izaya’s shoulders.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks. “I could make ramen or we could go out to get something.”

“No,” Izaya says, his voice half-muffled against Shizuo’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go outside again today.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere for me to make you dinner,” Shizuo tells him. “You can stay right here and I’d bring it to you, you don’t even have to move.”

Izaya makes a faint sound into Shizuo’s shirt, protest audible if incoherent. “No,” he says without lifting his head. When he moves it’s to kick his legs out over the length of the couch and press harder against the support Shizuo offers. “I’m not hungry.”

“Okay,” Shizuo says. He’s tipping sideways over the cushions, has to reach out to brace himself with his free hand; Izaya is leaning hard against him, like he’s using Shizuo himself in place of the support of the couch under them. Shizuo lets his hand slide off the back of the couch, lets his fingers trail carefully over the angle of Izaya’s far shoulder and the dark soft of his shirt. It’s chill to the touch, radiating against the warmth of the room like Izaya is producing cold instead of heat in his veins. “You really _are_ cold. Do you want a blanket or something?”

“‘M fine,” Izaya mumbles. He pushes harder against Shizuo’s shoulder, like he’s trying to knock the other back against the couch cushions; when he lifts a hand it’s to reach around the other’s waist, to catch Shizuo in the loop of his arm as he sighs against the other’s shirt. “It’s nice like this.”

Shizuo’s mouth twitches, tension catching to the beginning of a laugh at his lips as his skin flushes warm at the touch of Izaya’s arm. “Are you using me as a heater?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “You’re warm.”

Shizuo smiles down at the dark of Izaya’s head against his shoulder. “Alright,” he says, and lets his arm slide off the back of the couch entirely to weight around Izaya’s shoulders. Izaya doesn’t protest the motion, and he doesn’t pull away when Shizuo tightens his hold and lets his bracing hand go so he can tip back to lie against the couch cushions under them; he follows as fast as Shizuo moves, twisting to fall against the inside angle of the couch so he ends up half atop the cushions and half against Shizuo. Shizuo lets his hand against Izaya’s shoulder shift, slides it down by an inch to weight against the dip between the other’s shoulderblades instead, and Izaya lets him without trying to shift free of the weight. Shizuo’s heart is racing, his breathing catching fast with every breath he takes so close to Izaya’s hair; he’s sure Izaya can tell, sure his reaction must be abundantly obvious, but Izaya doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as shift to acknowledge any sense of self-consciousness about how close they’re pressed.

Shizuo takes a breath and reaches for something suitably off-hand to say. “Is this part of my job description too?” he asks, the words sounding something close to casual from what he can tell past the ringing of heat in his ears. “Heat source as well as bodyguard?”

“Of course,” Izaya says without lifting his head from where it’s pillowed at Shizuo’s shoulder. His breathing is very warm against Shizuo’s shirt. “When you keep me out in winter until I’m half-frozen, it’s only fair that you do your part to prevent hypothermia.”

“You _were_ cold,” Shizuo says. “You should have told me, I’d have gotten us a taxi when we were done.”

Izaya lifts his hand from Shizuo’s waist and waves it vaguely through the air to dismiss this offer. “If I wanted a taxi I’d have called one myself,” he says as he lets his arm fall back across Shizuo’s body. “Shut up and do your job.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Okay,” he says, and falls silent to leave just the sound of his breathing catching with Izaya’s in the heated air of the apartment.

Izaya stops shivering within five minutes, and by the time ten have passed Shizuo can feel his skin prickling into sweat from the too-much heat of someone else pressing against him; but he doesn’t say anything, and Izaya doesn’t move, and even after a half hour has gone by neither of them has shifted to do anything more productive with the afternoon.

Shizuo thinks he’d be happy to stay like this for days, if Izaya wanted him.


	50. Irresistible

Christmas brings snow with it.

Shizuo is still at his parent’s house that morning, lingering over a cup of tea while Kasuka talks about his newest acting role with as little enthusiasm as if he’s talking about an assignment at school; their mother is enraptured, their father amused, and Shizuo himself is smiling about Kasuka’s most recent in a series of successes, as pleased about his brother’s blossoming career as if it’s his own. There’s a part of his mind thinking of Izaya, as it always is, turning over ideas for the afternoon and wondering if Izaya will want to work or if he could be talked into going out for a dinner Shizuo could call a date, at least in the space of his own mind; and then Kasuka says, “Ah,” cutting off the flow of his story without any hesitation at all. “It’s snowing.” Everyone turns at once, looking towards the window where, indeed, there are a few pale flakes clinging to the sill before melting to liquid; and Kasuka’s story is dropped for the day, as forgotten by the speaker himself as by the rest of them. There’s a stir of excitement through the room, all four of them gravitating towards the window for a moment of startled appreciation; and Shizuo looks up at the clouded sky, and the drift of snowflakes falling to speckle the ground, and says “I’m going to see Izaya” before going to track down a coat to hold off the chill of the freezing air.

It’s a pleasant walk. The streets are full of people, some dressed for the weather and some not, all looking up to smile at the sky with the wide-eyed appreciation that always comes with the first snow of the year. It makes Shizuo smile to see, if the goal of his trek wasn’t enough to do so on its own; by the time he’s emerging from the elevator to make his way down the hall to Izaya’s apartment he’s warm straight through with happiness, appreciation of the weather and anticipation of the afternoon combining to leave him glowing with enthusiasm by the time he knocks on the door. Izaya answers in jeans and his usual thin shirt; the only concession to the weather he has made appears to be turning the thermostat up by a handful of degrees, until the air inside his apartment melts the flakes of ice in Shizuo’s hair and the collar of his coat on contact. Shizuo’s nearly sweating by the time he gets his jacket off and hung alongside the door; but the warmth is pleasant as the mild effort of his walk fades, and leaves him feeling drowsy with comfort, and Izaya goes to make them a pot of tea to share while Shizuo sprawls across the entire length of the couch to smoke a cigarette. It feels domestic, the way it might if they had woken up together, if this were their home instead of only Izaya’s apartment, and Shizuo lets himself daydream about it, indulges himself in a Christmas fantasy of living with Izaya, of being the one to pull Izaya’s attention to the first snowfall of the year on the other side of their living room window, of having the whole of a lifetime together in front of them instead of the restricted time of a single day’s visit. It lasts him through the whole process of Izaya making the tea and his own deliberate work smoking through the length of a cigarette, until finally he has to stir himself to sit up so he can stub out the end of his cigarette into the envelope from his pocket and pull himself back to the coherency of idle conversation.

“It’s a beautiful day for all the lovebirds in the city,” Izaya says as he settles himself onto the other side of the couch to lean against the support of the arm and gaze out the window at the white collecting to tiny drifts against the lip of the sill. “It’s so romantic, you know, freezing to death while wading through inches of slush.”

“Don’t be cynical,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya looks away from the window to turn his attention to Shizuo, his mouth quirking onto a smile; he turns against the couch, facing away from the window and towards Shizuo instead as he kicks his feet over the length of the cushions and into Shizuo’s lap. Shizuo huffs amusement at the weight and lets his shoulders tip back against the couch behind him as his fingers drop to settle gently over Izaya’s calves. “It’s pretty out there.”

“It’s _cold_ ,” Izaya declares. “Or do things like the temperature not bother a monster like you?”

“If you weren’t so skinny you wouldn’t get cold so easily,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya’s feet are heavy in his lap, the hem of the other’s jeans sliding up by an inch on one side to bare an extra gap of skin above the knob at his ankle.

“I’m not the oddity here, Shizu-chan,” Izaya informs him, purring over the nickname with the taunting weight he always gives it. He’s not looking at the other when Shizuo glances up at him; he has his elbow braced at the arm of the couch and his chin resting against his hand, the dark of his gaze focused towards the haze of snow outside the window and his mouth catching the very beginnings of a smile against his lips, like he’s thinking about something completely different than the snow outside. “You’re clearly an aberration to not mind freezing temperatures. I’d much rather appreciate the snow from here, where I don’t have to suffer its sideeffects.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and looks back down to Izaya’s feet in his lap, to the relaxed angle of the other resting against him. “That sounds just like you.” The words come out soft in his throat, catching on more affection than he intended, but he doesn’t try to call them back; he shifts his hand instead to hook his thumb just inside the edge of Izaya’s jeans and tug at the fabric where it’s pinned under the other’s leg. There’s the faint pink of pressed-in texture against Izaya’s ankle, the markings from the seam laid into a temporary pattern against pale skin; Shizuo thinks about pressing his thumb to the color, thinks about running his touch up along Izaya’s leg to follow the line against the angle of his ankle and up the curve of his calf. Izaya’s skin would be warm to the touch, would slide soft against his fingertips; and Izaya draws his foot back, pulling free of Shizuo’s unthinking hold on his jeans before the other can react and kicking bruise-hard at Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo can feel the impact jolt out into him, the force hard enough to flare to hurt for a moment, and he hisses startled discomfort and looks up to meet Izaya’s gaze. Izaya’s staring at him, his eyes dark and mouth set; for a moment the tension at his lips looks nearly like a frown, his expression looks almost angry before he forces a smile onto the corner of his mouth.

“Too bad you don’t have anything better to do than spend the day with me,” he says, his smile sharp and eyes dark with no trace of amusement. “Only think how many girls you could impress with your inhuman tolerance for cold.”

Shizuo frowns. “Shut up,” he says, closing his hand on Izaya’s ankle and pushing the other’s heel away from the bruise rising at his hip as he tries to make sense of the shadow behind Izaya’s lashes and the strain of the forced mockery at his lips. “I don’t see you out with anyone either.”

“Of course not,” Izaya says, and turns away to stare out the window again, shifting his other foot to weight his leg over both of Shizuo’s instead of in the other’s lap. “It’s a public service, Shizuo, me keeping you occupied so everyone else can have a romantic day out.” His voice is teasing, his tone light, but his smile is fading, his mouth pulling back into that frown as he offers an unfocused stare at the window. “Only think how distracting a brawl would be to a new couple in the first flush of love.”

There’s something strange under Izaya’s voice, some tension usually absent or at least better hidden than it is now. Shizuo keeps watching the other’s face, trying to gain some traction on Izaya’s thoughts from the half-hidden line of his profile gazing out the window. “I haven’t gotten into a fight since I saved you from Izumii,” he says, and blinks hard to shake off the too-vivid recollection of a pain-pale face, of fingers swelling to angry red, of Izaya’s spine arching and throat opening on a moan that went through Shizuo like lightning to ground him out to an unshakeable certainty. “You act like I’d cause a riot just by walking down the street.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Izaya snaps. “What, does the monster want to make an attempt at humanity?” His gaze slides sideways, his attention catching at Shizuo’s stare for a moment; when he turns away this time it’s farther than before, twisting to offer just his tense shoulders until Shizuo can’t make out his expression at all. “How romantic. Who’s the lucky victim of your affections?” There’s no warmth on the words at all; they’re sharp, bitter, vicious with aggression that sparks answering adrenaline in Shizuo’s veins. He has to press his lips tight together to keep from snapping a too-quick response, to keep from blurting the obvious _who do you_ think _it is, Izaya?_ to cut off the strange tension in the other’s throat. As it is it costs him an effort, strains in the back of his throat and tightens his muscles so his fingers dig in harder that he intends against Izaya’s ankle in his hold as the other goes on speaking to the snow falling outside the window. “Someone you saw for a moment at the bar and haven’t been able to stop thinking of? Is it a tragic romance, Shizu-chan? Maybe a married woman, or someone too young for you?”

Shizuo’s whole body is tense with adrenaline, with anticipation, with the perpetual strain of fighting back unwanted honesty and, now, with the grating edge of irritation rising along his spine to threaten the desperate self-control he’s sustained until now. “Shut up,” he manages, his voice going dark with the sincerity of the danger behind it. Izaya’s still not looking at him. “Stop being a brat.”

“She must be beautiful,” Izaya goes on, as easily as if Shizuo hadn’t spoken at all. His voice is straining in his throat, sounding like it’s pulling over the tension of a laugh or maybe of unshed tears, as if it’s panic and not mania spilling so hot from his lips. “Or maybe just too nice for her own good. Is a smile really all it takes to calm the savage beast?”

Shizuo’s shoulders hunch into an involuntary attempt to protect the soft edges of a years-old memory -- wide eyes, a shaky smile, the thud of adoration sudden and hot in his veins -- from the cut of Izaya’s words making it into a mockery. “Let it go,” he says, his voice as tense as his shoulders. He wonders if Izaya can hear the sincerity on the plea, can hear the warning under the demand. “Just drop it, Izaya.”

“I bet I can guess who,” Izaya drawls, running carelessly past Shizuo’s warning, past the rising strain of the moment, past the tension of Shizuo’s fingers tightening well past the point of bruising against the other’s ankle. Shizuo doesn’t know if he _can_ stop, now, doesn’t know how much control Izaya still has over the rush of words in his mouth. “It’s that new waitress at Russia Sushi, isn’t it? She’s quiet, not _my_ type, but she certainly seemed to like you when we went by there last.” He pauses for breath and takes a shaky inhale; Shizuo thinks for a moment it’s over, that the flood of words will finally cease, but Izaya just exhales like he’s trying to shed all his emotion at once and goes on in that weird, bright ramble of razor-edged taunting. “I’m not sure she _can_ talk at all, actually. Do you think she speaks anything but Russian?”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo says, his voice as low as it has ever been, his whole body thrumming with a last-ditch attempt at restraint to hold back the sincere anger burning his veins to fire. “ _Stop_.”

Izaya’s laugh is bright, bitter, sharp as a slap across the face and a clearer answer to Shizuo’s plea than his continued speech. “Hit a nerve, I see. I’m happy for you, Shizuo, really I am, you should have told me sooner that you were in love.”

The whole world goes still. Izaya’s still staring out the window, his leg still stretched across Shizuo’s lap and his shoulders still so tight under his shirt Shizuo can see the strain without even looking; he doesn’t look back as he delivers this last dig, doesn’t glance to watch Shizuo’s patience dissolve like the snowflakes melting to damp against the outside of the overlarge windows. Shizuo’s ears are ringing, his heart is pounding, but: _you should have told me sooner that you were in love_ , Izaya told him, and Shizuo has never before lost his temper with Izaya.

“This is ridiculous,” his voice says, delivering the words with icy calm, and his hand moves of its own accord to shove Izaya’s feet away from the casual contact with Shizuo’s legs, to force away the suggestion under the touch and the affection that has gone unstated for too many years and over too many conversations. He pushes harder than he thinks to, hard enough to shove Izaya halfway across the couch himself, but he’s moving before he can apologize, twisting on the couch and rising up onto his knees so he can reach out and brace a hand against the back of the furniture. Izaya catches himself with a hand at the coffee table, pushes himself upright as he turns back to Shizuo; there’s the beginnings of anger in his expression, the snap of frustration on his lips and fire behind his eyes, but they all evaporate as he sees the way Shizuo is looking at him, all give way at once as Izaya falls back against the couch as if surprise has knocked him boneless with shock against the support.

Shizuo doesn’t wait for Izaya to gain his composure back. “This is _stupid_ ,” he says, and then he’s talking, words spilling from his lips too fast to catch back, all his self-imposed resistance melting away to sudden speed on his tongue as the patience of years gives way to the relief of honesty. “I keep waiting and waiting for you to make up your mind and I’m _tired_ of it.” Izaya’s eyes widen, his breathing catches on shock, but Shizuo can’t close his mouth and can’t stem the tide of words even if he wanted to try.

“You don’t make any _sense_ ,” he says. “Half the time you’re practically in my lap and act like we got married when I wasn’t looking and the other half of the time you’re making up these absurd fantasies about some nonexistent girlfriend.” Izaya is staring at Shizuo, his mouth half-open and his gaze shocked right out of any edge it may have once had, and Shizuo has never wanted anyone else in all his life, has never wanted Izaya as much as he does right at this moment. “Don’t you know _why_ I’m not seeing anyone? It’s not that no one’s interested. I’m pretty sure that waitress _would_ say yes to a date if I asked.” Izaya’s expression crumples, the shock in his eyes giving way to agonized hurt in the span of a breath, his mouth coming open on a hiss as if Shizuo has slapped him, and the tension of frustration along Shizuo’s spine evaporates, swept aside by the sudden ache of guilt that hits him at the look in Izaya’s face, at the hurt darker in the other’s eyes than anything Shizuo has ever seen from a physical injury.

“Don’t look like that,” he blurts, and he’s moving without thinking, lifting a hand to press against the curve of Izaya’s cheek before there’s any time for his usual overthinking to make it awkward with intent. It’s just instinct, just his palm catching at the other’s skin before he can stop himself, and Izaya jerks at the contact, his eyes going wide as he hiccups on a breath and goes as utterly still as Shizuo has ever seen him. “You always look like I’m tearing your heart out with my bare hands when I mention anyone else and I thought it--”

 _Meant something_ , he wants to say. Izaya is staring at him, unblinking and unmoving; Shizuo can’t even hear the sound of his breathing, isn’t sure Izaya is remembering to inhale at all. His eyes are catching the illumination from overhead, shining with color and the threat of emotion that Shizuo wants to push away, wants to chase back until there’s nothing but melting happiness in the other’s face. Izaya looks frozen, half-terrified and all panicked, like he’s waiting for some blow to fall or for a reprieve from some doomed fate, and Shizuo doesn’t know which one his statement will be but he’s only ever had himself to offer anyway, so he takes a breath, and lets himself speak.

“I’ve been waiting on you for years,” he says, and the words surge heavy in his chest, push at his tongue and demand expression from his lips. “I don’t go on dates. I spend every Christmas with _you_.” Memory flashes bright: the tang of mandarins in the air, the crackle of a sharp-edged laugh across a kotatsu, the friction of wind-chilled fingers in Shizuo’s own, and Shizuo doesn’t try to hold back the warmth of the smile that spreads across his face. “I spend _all_ my time with you. I _like_ you.” Izaya’s breath catches, his expression tensing for a moment like he wants to offer protest to this; but he doesn’t say anything, even when Shizuo waits. His eyes are still wide, his lips still parted on silence; his mouth is flushed nearly to red by the warmth of the room. Shizuo realizes he’s staring, realizes his attention is lingering overlong against the soft of Izaya’s lips; but he doesn’t look away, even when his spine starts flickering into electricity, even when his heart starts to pound harder in his chest to steal his breath.

“I like you a _lot_ ,” he manages, his voice going rough on the edges, and then he can’t stay still anymore, his fingers are sliding out into Izaya’s hair and he’s leaning in closer and Izaya is perfectly still under him, silent and unmoving like he’s waiting for something, like he’s waiting for someone, like he’s waiting for _Shizuo_. Shizuo’s fingers catch against the back of Izaya’s head, his hold steadying into intention too obvious to be mistaken; when he tips closer the distance evaporates between them, dissolving until he can feel the heat of Izaya’s too-shallow breathing spilling against his mouth. Shizuo’s heart is pounding, everything in him is urging him forward, closer, now now _now_ , _finally_ \-- and he stops himself an inch away, a breath away, his heart rattling in his chest and Izaya’s breathing against his mouth and stronger than everything else, stronger even than he is: the need to _know_ , the need to be _sure_.

“Izaya,” he says. He can’t even hear his own voice between the soft of the sound and the hum of electricity in his ears. “Can I--”

Shizuo doesn’t know how he would finish that sentence. He isn’t sure he would at all, isn’t sure he wouldn’t leave it to trail off into shared understanding as so much between them has always been. It doesn’t matter. There’s a rush of motion under him, Izaya acting so fast Shizuo’s heat-dazed attention can’t track it, and then there’s a fist gripping at Shizuo’s vest, delicate fingers curling in on themselves into a hold so strong Shizuo is sure he’d never be able to break free of it.

“Do it,” Izaya grates, his voice raw and straining on the words, and his hand pulls, and Shizuo moves, and their mouths fall into place against each other.

There’s too much to think about. Shizuo’s thoughts reel, skid out on adrenaline, try to focus on everything all at the same time. The way Izaya’s mouth is tense against his, still holding to the edge of his words for a long heartbeat of time. The way his hair feels, tangling to softness against Shizuo’s palm and around the bracing grip of his fingers. The way his lashes look this close-up, and the way Shizuo’s nose burns with the smell of licorice, the way Izaya’s lips are going softer under his, like they’re capitulating to the force of Shizuo’s mouth against them. The way it feels to have Izaya’s lips against his. The way it feels to kiss Izaya.

Shizuo pulls back after an eternity, after not nearly long enough. His heart is pounding so loud against his chest he’s sure it will drown out the tremor of his voice in his throat. His hand in Izaya’s hair is trembling, he thinks, or maybe it just feels like it is, maybe it’s just that his entire body is trying to shake itself into a different state of being, maybe it’s that the touch of Izaya’s lips on his was enough to make him something new, better, different than what he was before.

“There,” he breathes, his voice as foreign and strange as the feel of his heartbeat in his chest. Izaya is staring up at him, his eyes blown so dark Shizuo can’t see the color of the irises anymore, his lips still parted like they were against Shizuo’s mouth. “That’s. That was.”

“You’re a terrible kisser,” Izaya grates out. Shizuo’s never heard him sound so raw. It’s like the carefully composed symphony of the other’s voice has fallen silent under Shizuo’s lips, has left just the breathless catch of words without any of the usual facade to distract from their meaning. “Is that really the best you can do, Shizu-chan?”

“I haven’t ever kissed anyone before,” Shizuo manages. His hand is still in Izaya’s hair, his shadow still cast over Izaya’s face. Izaya is staring at him as if there’s nothing else that exists in the entire world, as if he’s gone blind to everything outside of Shizuo leaning over him. “How am I _supposed_ to do it?”

Izaya swallows. “I don’t know,” he says, his eyes still wide, his mouth trembling against the shape of the words until Shizuo almost doesn’t notice the impossibility of Izaya admitting ignorance, of Izaya capitulating to uncertainty. “Who am _I_ meant to have practiced with, exactly?”

Shizuo’s shoulders tense. For a moment he can see it too clearly, Izaya leaning in with a smile at his mouth and seduction in his eyes towards some faceless stranger, offering the give of his lips and the dark of his gaze for someone else’s appreciation, and there’s a surge of darkness in Shizuo’s chest, a spill of jealousy that boils out as “Fuck,” growling to audibility against his mouth to shatter the brief flare of the delusion into reality instead: Izaya wide-eyed with shock, Izaya’s mouth soft and awkward on uncertainty, Izaya with no experience to go on but what Shizuo offers him.

“No one,” Shizuo tells him, possessiveness curling to heat against his tongue, and then he leans back in to catch Izaya’s mouth under the weight of his again. Izaya’s lashes flutter in his periphery, the motion surrendering the glazed dark of his eyes to the cover of his eyelids instead, and Shizuo shuts his eyes too, his awareness going dizzy with the loss of his sight. It’s overwhelming like this, with the part of Izaya’s lips soft under his and the smell of the other’s skin saturating the air until it’s like he’s breathing Izaya straight into his lungs, and Shizuo’s licking at Izaya’s mouth, tasting the heat of his lips and reaching for more, farther, for everything of Izaya he can have all at once. His fingers are catching at Izaya’s waist, his balance giving way to press him hard against Izaya’s body under him, and Izaya is reaching up for him too, turning his head and parting his lips to make an offering of his mouth as his hold catches at Shizuo’s collar, as his fingers slide against Shizuo’s neck to dig into the tangle of his hair. Shizuo can smell licorice burning to bitter in his throat, can taste a richness like vanilla against the back of his tongue, and he’s licking farther into Izaya’s mouth and Izaya is arching up against him, is curving to meet the weight of Shizuo’s body, and it’s then that Shizuo catches the flicker of salt at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling away with more strength than he thought he had, retreating in the first reflexive jolt of panic as recognition catches up with the familiarity of that taste. Izaya is blinking hard, his mouth still open on the rush of his breathing and his gaze unfocused with shadows -- and his cheeks are wet, his lashes heavy with the tears that Shizuo caught between the friction of their lips.

Shizuo’s never seen Izaya cry before. He’s seen Izaya bruised, bleeding, dizzy with a concussion and breathless from the pain of dislocated fingers; but he’s never seen him so injured or so upset that he surrenders to the impulse of tears, and now he’s crying, tears are spilling down his cheeks with Shizuo’s fingers still pressing into his hair and the heat of Shizuo’s mouth still against his. Shizuo’s heart drops, his whole body going cold with miserable, horrified guilt, and he loosens his hold immediately, easing his grip away from the possibility of pain even as he blurts “Fuck” and “I’m sorry,” as if either of those can possibly make up for whatever it is he has accidentally done to the one person he never wanted to hurt. “What did I do?”

Izaya stares at him. “What?”

“Did I hurt you?” Izaya is still staring at Shizuo as if he’s entirely forgotten how to understand spoken language; Shizuo looks down to the other’s waist, wonders if he’s left the print of his fingerprints as bruises against pale skin. Or maybe it was the heat of his mouth that Izaya didn’t want, maybe he-- “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to--did you not want…?”

Izaya’s forehead creases, his mouth drags down into a frown. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Shizuo thinks the words are intended as anger, meant to bite and crackle like electricity clinging to metal; but they break halfway through, drag over emotion and come out as a sob.

“You’re crying,” Shizuo says, stating the obvious as he lifts his hand to ghost against the damp at Izaya’s cheek. Izaya blinks, his expression going blank with lack of comprehension; his hand drops from Shizuo’s vest, his fingers land at his opposite cheek to echo Shizuo’s careful touch against his skin. He lifts his hand, stares at the wet on his hand like he can’t make any sense of it; and then chokes on an inhale, his expression crumpling as his breathing catches onto a sudden sob.

“ _Shit_ ,” Shizuo hisses, and lets Izaya go completely, rocking back over his knees to retreat from any contact at all with the other’s body. He thought he was being gentle, had thought his touch was as careful as it has ever been; but he’s still hot with adrenaline, it must be his body acting without him even being aware of it to dig in too hard against fragile bone and delicate skin. His chest tightens, his stomach knots into a surge of nauseating guilt he can’t push back as his hands curl to fists to dig his fingernails in against his palms. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the words are weak but he doesn’t know what else to offer, not when even attempted gentleness has brought about more unhappiness than Shizuo has ever seen from Izaya before. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Izaya hisses, scowling frustration as he lifts a hand to rub a sleeve roughly across his eyes. “You _didn’t_.” He sounds angry more than upset, irritable more than pained; but even when he lets his arm fall his eyes are welling with tears, his breathing is hiccuping on sobs. “It’s fine, I’m _fine_.”

“You’re _crying_ , you’re not _fine_ ,” Shizuo tells him; but his chest is easing a little from its first panicked horror, his heart is considering something like a normal pace. It’s true that Izaya doesn’t _look_ hurt, he’s not reaching to press against any sign of an injury or hesitating in his movement; when he shoves against the couch to push himself upright it’s as fluid as ever, if marked with the jerky speed he sometimes shows when he’s sincerely frustrated. His mouth is drawn down onto a frown of determination, his forehead creased like he’s trying to fight back the tears still spilling over his lashes; but when he reaches out to close his hand at Shizuo’s vest there’s no hesitation in his hold at all.

“I’m okay,” Izaya says, biting off the words like he can make them true by force. Maybe he can; the tears seem to be easing, the catch of his breathing is fading to a more natural rhythm. He pulls at Shizuo’s vest, sliding himself forward across the couch and close against the other’s hip, and when his lashes dip to shadow his gaze his other hand comes out, his fingers catching to fit against the line of Shizuo’s collar and press to the bare skin of Shizuo’s neck. Shizuo’s lashes flutter, his vision going to a haze as his throat works on an involuntary moan at the contact, and he hadn’t intended to reach back out but his hand lifts anyway, his fingers drawn to land at Izaya’s waist as if the other’s skin is a magnet drawing him helplessly in towards it.

“I’m fine,” Izaya says, sounding almost normal; and then, as his forehead creases and his mouth twists, “I’m _happy_ ,” sounding startled by this statement even as he says it. He blinks hard, the tension easing from his expression like he’s only just realizing the truth of his words; and Shizuo looks up at Izaya’s dark eyes, and soft mouth, and laughs so suddenly it surprises him as much as it does Izaya. His hand tightens at Izaya’s waist, his fingers spreading wider to frame the shift of the other’s too-fast breathing against his hand, and “Okay,” he says aloud, verbal capitulation to Izaya’s statement as much as his touch was a physical one. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his lips parting on an invitation as honest as it is involuntary, and when Shizuo’s gaze lands at the other’s mouth Izaya pulls against his vest, the force a command as clear as if it were spoken aloud. It’s not impossible to resist; Shizuo could shake off Izaya’s hold if he wanted, could stay where he is and let Izaya pull himself in closer instead of surrendering to the other’s urging. He doesn’t. He leans forward instead, drawn by the drag of Izaya’s fingers curled to a fist on his vest, and when Izaya lift his chin in unspoken invitation Shizuo tips his head to the side and fits his mouth to Izaya’s as gently as he knows how.

For Shizuo, Izaya has always been irresistible.


	51. Devotion

Izaya’s mouth tastes better than Shizuo thought it would.

He’s put some thought into the matter. He’s imagined the bite of coffee, the haze of smoke, the coppery tang of blood and the sweet-bitter of that everpresent licorice tang that clings to Izaya’s skin like a marker for his presence. He’s dreamed of it too many nights to count, has framed Izaya’s lips to vanilla and chocolate and the dark, heavy tang of coffee and iron at the back of the tongue until he thought nothing could surprise him, until he was sure the weight of Izaya’s mouth at his would feel more like coming home than a foreign experience. But Izaya tastes better, like everything Shizuo imagined but more, richer, _warmer_ , like there’s a fire under his skin in place of blood and electricity skirting along the palms of his hands instead of the more ordinary texture of skin. Shizuo doesn’t know how they ended up toppled over the couch with the arch of Izaya’s back caught under his hold at the other’s hip and Izaya’s hands winding to fists in his hair, has no sense of how much time has passed since his perception of the world outside faded and narrowed down to just the span of Izaya’s breathing coming hard and hot at his lips, and he can’t be persuaded that it matters, not when all his thoughts are running dizzy with heat and relief and the endless, overwhelming satisfaction of finally, _finally_ being as close to Izaya as he has always wanted to be. Izaya is no steadier; he keeps moving, dragging away to gasp a lungful of air and then pulling Shizuo in against him again, as close as they can get, as if he thinks Shizuo is likely to come to his senses and drag free of the hold he has on the other’s hair if he once lets it go free. Shizuo can’t imagine what Izaya thinks he’s likely to object to; even when the other’s teeth catch at his lip and dig in hard enough to draw the ache of a bruise to the surface his heat-drunk body just shudders with helpless force, his throat opening up onto a groan that spills hot over Izaya’s lips as if to chase away the chill of the winter snow outside.

“Fuck,” Shizuo gasps, fighting for some measure of coherency while Izaya’s fingers drag at his hair and Izaya’s teeth dig deeper at his lip. Izaya makes a faint sound of protest as Shizuo gets his mouth free, his fingers twisting harder against the fists he’s made of Shizuo’s hair; Shizuo can feel the weight of the other’s hold run fire all down the length of his spine. “You’re trying to eat me alive.”

“My apologies,” Izaya says, except the words turn over in his throat and come out purring like an invitation, like an offer to match the dark of his lashes weighting over the blown-out shadows of his eyes. His neck is a smooth curve, his skin faintly slick with sweat to match the breathless rush of air in his lungs, and Shizuo can’t resist the draw of it, can’t hold himself back from the temptation to duck his head and press his nose and lips against the rush of Izaya’s pulse in his throat. He can feel the hum of the other’s words taking shape under the weight of his mouth. “I thought you’d be able to handle a little roughness.” The fists in Shizuo’s hair ease, loosen from their desperate hold; Shizuo can feel the drag of Izaya’s fingers sliding over his scalp run straight through his entire body and tense a knot of heat low at the bottom of his spine. He makes a sound at Izaya’s throat, something incoherent and wanting, and he can hear the delighted laughter under Izaya’s voice as he goes on. “Is that better?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans. Izaya’s fingers are dragging at the back of his neck, now, the other’s touch wandering against the edge of his collar; he turns his head up to meet the touch, to catch his lips to the thud of Izaya’s heartbeat at the inside line of his wrist. Izaya’s hand turns up into elegant surrender and Shizuo shuts his eyes and lets the friction of his lips guide him across the lines of Izaya’s palm and up along the curl of his fingers, pressing the imprint of his mouth against the inside of each knuckle as he goes. Izaya’s fingers shift under his lips, curl and relax in involuntary reaction, and Shizuo’s hand is shifting too, his fingers slipping out to wander along the curve of Izaya’s body under him. Izaya arches into the touch, his fingers tensing as Shizuo kisses against the unique texture of his fingerprints, and Shizuo’s humming contentment, giving voice to the satisfaction of long-held desire as his hand catches at the angle of Izaya’s hip and his breathing catches around the tangle of Izaya’s fingers.

“It’s fine,” he says, and it is, he doesn’t care what they do, doesn’t care if Izaya wants to wind fingers into his hair or press his teeth into the indentation of bruises at Shizuo’s lips or the line of his throat; his thoughts are dizzy on heat and he thinks he would accept anything to have Izaya stay like this with him. “Whatever is fine.” He turns away from the curl of Izaya’s fingers against his lips, looks down to the heat turning Izaya’s gaze to smoke and shadow behind his lashes; there’s an invitation there, preemptive surrender to anything Shizuo wants to do, and it’s been so long and Shizuo has wanted so much and all he can do is what he’s been craving for years, what even now he can’t manage to get enough of. He ducks his head closer, presses his nose in against the soft skin just under Izaya’s ear; his lips form the shape of an idle kiss, his breathing catches the rhythm of Izaya’s heartbeat over his tongue. Everything is warm, rich and bittersweet and filling his nose, his tongue, his throat, and when he breathes out the air stutters itself into a groan at Izaya’s skin. “ _God_ , you smell good.”

“What?” Izaya sounds faintly amused, like he might be about to laugh, but he’s turning his head into more of an offer and his fingers are winding into Shizuo’s hair as if to hold him still. “I _smell_ good?”

“Yeah.” Shizuo works a hand free and up to catch at Izaya’s hair, to brace his palm against the other’s head and hold him steady while Shizuo presses in closer against the heat of Izaya’s skin against his lips. “You always have.” Izaya smells like licorice, he tastes like vanilla; every breath is liquid warmth in Shizuo’s veins, every inhale eases the strain of desperation and demands more before Shizuo yet has a chance to fill his lungs again. “I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

“You really have to work on your pillow talk.” Izaya’s fingers tighten against Shizuo’s hair for a moment, dragging before he slides his touch down to press against the back of the other’s neck. “The pining part is good but you might want to go with kissing or touching as your fantasy instead of _smelling_. It shows a little too much of your animal side, Shizu-chan, you’d frighten off most lovers.”

Shizuo huffs amusement against Izaya’s skin. “Shut up,” he says, the words going warm around the shape of the smile at his lips. “ _You’re_ not frightened.”

“Of course not.” Izaya’s fingers push through Shizuo’s hair, the motion as unthinking as it is affectionate; Shizuo tips his head in submission to the unvoiced suggestion, fitting his mouth in closer to kiss against the rush of Izaya’s heartbeat fluttering with the adrenaline Shizuo imagines he can tastes like copper in the air. Izaya’s breathing catches at the friction, his fingers tightening to a fist as his voice dips into incoherency for a moment. “I’ve--I’ve known you too long to be alarmed by something so trivial.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” Shizuo doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t lift his head; when he turns it’s to drag his mouth against the sharp edge of Izaya’s collarbone pressing close to skin, to skim against the dip of bone and catch the taste of the shadows there against his tongue. Honesty makes speech easy, lets words fall from his lips without any need for the distraction of rational thought before he offers them. “If you don’t care then it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Izaya manages from under him, his voice skipping higher with every inch of distance Shizuo’s lips gain along his skin. “In case you want to be more generally appealing to humanity as a whole.”

Shizuo growls against Izaya’s shoulder. “I don’t,” he says, sharp and certain, and lifts his head so he can crush a kiss against the pale curve of Izaya’s throat, pressing hard to punctuate his words with the heat of his mouth. Izaya’s breathing catches, his spine arches; for a moment his body is flush against Shizuo’s, their clothes caught and tangled between them. Shizuo wonders if he’ll smell like licorice himself, after this. “Stop acting like I’m going to abandon you for someone better as soon as I get bored.”

“Oh?” Izaya’s aiming for teasing; Shizuo thinks he’s almost succeeding, thinks the lie might pass for truth if he couldn’t feel how hard Izaya’s heart is beating against the press of his chest, if he couldn’t feel stress in the curl of Izaya’s fingers in his hair. “Come on, Shizuo, don’t you think you could find someone else if you looked?”

“Sure I could,” Shizuo says, and lifts his head fast, before Izaya’s expression can collapse into that aching hurt that always comes with this topic. “I’m not looking.” Izaya’s staring at him, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted; his gaze flickers to Shizuo’s mouth, his breathing rushes out of him in an involuntary plea that Shizuo wants nothing so much as to grant. Shizuo leans in, drawn by that magnetic shadow in Izaya’s eyes as surely as he ever is, and Izaya’s turning his head to match him, tipping his chin up in a helpless tell for what he wants that runs through Shizuo’s entire body like the radiant warmth of summertime sunshine. He leans closer over the distance between them, fretting the edges of the gap down to nothing, and Izaya lifts his head to bump his mouth against Shizuo’s, to catch his lips to a moment of glancing friction against the other’s.

“You’re a brat,” Shizuo tells him, the word spilling to warmth over Izaya’s mouth, the insult so long-since turned into affection he can’t even remember when it became as soft as _love_ against his tongue. His hand catches at Izaya’s hip, his fingers slipping under the weight of dark fabric to press flush to warm skin, and he leans in to catch the hiss of an inhale Izaya takes against his mouth, the impulse too strong and his self-control too weak to stop the motion even if he cared to try. Izaya’s fingers tense in his hair, Izaya’s lips part under his, and there’s heat spilling over Shizuo’s tongue and down his throat, Izaya pressing so close against him that Shizuo can borrow the electricity that sparks scarlet behind the other’s eyes and let it play across his skin as well. By the time he pulls away they’re both breathing hard; Izaya’s mouth is wet and Shizuo’s thoughts are hazy, and when honesty presses hard at the back of his tongue he opens his mouth and lets it spill into an offering to the dark of Izaya’s eyes and the heat-haze of his skin. “You’re a brat, and you’re more trouble than you’re worth, and I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

Izaya’s lashes flutter, dipping to hide the shadow of his gaze for a moment as he coughs a laugh; his eyes are bright when he looks back up, the color shining with almost-damp to match the tremor of emotion at the corner of his mouth. “I guess that was a little better,” he says, his gaze and his fingers sliding down to follow the curve of Shizuo’s collar around to the weight of the tie pressing against the other’s throat. His mouth is still soft on almost-a-smile, the warmth of the expression spreading out to light up the whole of his face in spite of the way he’s ducking his chin in an instinctive attempt to hide it. “Maybe lead off with the compliment and not the insults next time.”

Shizuo can’t help the smile that spreads across his face any more than he can hold back the laugh that threatens in the back of his throat. “Shut up, Izaya,” he purrs without any space for irritation around the rumble of affection in his chest, and when Izaya lifts his chin to smile up at him Shizuo braces his fingers against Izaya’s hair, and leans in, and kisses him until the only shadow in Izaya’s eyes is from the heat-heavy slant of his lashes.


	52. Attentive

Shizuo doesn’t know how long they stay on the couch together. It’s hard even to keep track of the steady rush of his breathing and the rhythm of his heart pounding against his chest like it’s trying to make itself heard to everyone in the room and not just himself; time slips away from him entirely, minutes and hours tangling into some interchangeable haze of unimportance. Outside the snow is still falling, coating the sleek metallic shine of the buildings with a haze of crystalline cold, but Shizuo doesn’t turn away to see. His attention is entirely given over to the usual edge of Izaya’s mouth gone soft and submissive to the press of his lips, to the way he can fit his mouth against the line of collarbone he has spent years staring at instead of touching, to breathing in the weight of licorice off Izaya’s skin as the ache of want in his chest unravels to satisfaction, to pleasure, to the bone-deep relief of having Izaya as close against him as Shizuo has always wanted him to be.

The first tension of anxious want eases, after a while. The catch of Izaya’s teeth at Shizuo’s lip gives way, the drag of his fingernails over Shizuo’s skin shifts into the gentle slide of fingertips instead of trailing red lines in the wake of his touch; and Shizuo’s grip goes steadier too, edges back from the desperate-careful hold he had at first and into something heavier, easier, more certain with every span of breathing that passes. Izaya’s arm ends up draped around Shizuo’s shoulders, his fingers catching to tug idly at the edge of the other’s vest; Shizuo’s hand is against Izaya’s hip, his thumb pressing under the loose fall of dark fabric to rest against the bare skin dipping over Izaya’s hipbone against the top edge of his jeans. Izaya is warm to the touch, his cheeks flushed and lips red every time Shizuo looks up to see, and when he does open his eyes it’s only halfway, his lashes fluttering with weight like he’s fighting to bring his vision back from the heat-haze Shizuo can see clouding the color of his eyes to shadow. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer any kind of verbal communication for Shizuo to parse; but Shizuo doesn’t need it, not when everything from the rush of Izaya’s breathing to the part of his lips to the slant of his shoulders is saying _more_ so clearly it doesn’t need any effort to read it. And Shizuo is more than happy to obey, to press his nose in against the dark of Izaya’s hair and fit his lips to the delicate stretch of skin just under the other’s ear, to kiss a path up the line of Izaya’s throat and to the corner of his lips and to slide his hand up to weight the curve of Izaya’s waist with the span of his palm. There are words Shizuo could find for this, love and appreciation and adoration so sharp in his chest it burns like sunlight in his eyes; but it’s hard to find breath for speaking, and easy to press his mouth to Izaya’s skin, and right now there’s nothing he wants more than to cover every inch of Izaya he can reach with the print of his lips, with the friction of the contact he has so craved for so long and can finally indulge in. It feels good to have Izaya like this, pressing against him and braced against the touch of his hands, feels good to catch the faint hum of pleasure in the back of Izaya’s throat with the weight of his mouth on lips or neck, until Shizuo barely notices the ache of hunger starting to form itself in his stomach, doesn’t think at all about how much time has passed since his minimal breakfast until there’s a pang of discomfort strong enough to make it through the heat-haze clouding his thoughts and pull his attention briefly onto something other than the way Izaya tastes against his lips.

“Oh,” he says, his voice coming out far lower than he expected as it pulls over the tension of heat in his chest and humming electric through his veins. “What time is it?”

Izaya’s eyelids flutter. “Mm,” he manages, opening his eyes enough for Shizuo to see the flicker of red behind lashes gone shadowed and dizzy on heat. “I don’t know.” His free hand comes out to catch at Shizuo’s hair, his fingers sliding into the tangle his touch has already made of the strands. “It doesn’t matter. Kiss me again.”

Shizuo obeys the pull of Izaya’s hand to urge him in closer, takes a long span of seconds to fit his lips against the curve of Izaya’s; Izaya’s fingers drag over his scalp, Izaya licks past his lips with slow appreciation, and Shizuo opens his mouth wider to let Izaya do as he likes, with just the flex of his fingers at the other’s waist to speak to his reaction. The kiss goes long, spanning a small infinity of appreciation in Shizuo’s thoughts; by the time Izaya pulls away again his breathing is coming harder in his chest, his blood is purring hotter in his veins, and against him Izaya is arching closer, curving himself in to push as near to Shizuo’s body as he can get until they’re as close together as the weight of their clothes will let them be.

“We should have something to eat,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s mouth, without opening his eyes to allow the haze of his vision to distract him. “It must be hours since I got here.”

“I’m not hungry,” Izaya says, his fingers twisting into a fist in Shizuo’s hair. “It’s too cold to go out.”

“I can make you something here,” Shizuo suggests, breathing in a lungful of air from against the flushed heat of Izaya’s cheek under his mouth. “You wouldn’t have to go out at all.”

“I don’t want anything,” Izaya tells him. His other hand shifts against Shizuo’s shoulder, sliding back across the other’s neck to join the first tangled into yellow hair. “Let’s just stay here.”

“ _I’m_ hungry,” Shizuo protests, trying to assign sufficient importance to the ache in his stomach while all the rest of his awareness purrs suggestion about Izaya’s mouth, Izaya’s hair, the curve of Izaya’s throat leading down to the dark slant of fabric across his collarbones. “Have you had anything at all to eat today, Izaya?”

“I’m not hungry,” Izaya doesn’t answer, his mouth drawing down into a frown that is really more of a pout than otherwise, with his lips as kiss-bruised as they are. “I want you to stay here with me.”

Shizuo’s laugh comes on happiness as much as amusement, affection breaking free of the tension in his chest to spill over his tongue and against Izaya’s mouth so close to his. “I want to too,” he says, and punctuates with a kiss he manages to keep reasonably short in spite of the temptation of lingering. “We have to take a break to eat sometime, though.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, sounding patently unconvinced. “Do we?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Shizuo insists, still fighting back laughter that he can see drawing to echoed amusement at the corner of Izaya’s mouth. He leans in to land a kiss at Izaya’s cheek and is rewarded immediately with the collapse of the other’s frown into a smile to match the flush across his cheeks and the shadowed pleasure in his eyes; he presses another against Izaya’s skin, moves up to kiss just against the corner of the other’s lashes, and Izaya shuts his eyes and smiles into a softness that lights more warmth into Shizuo’s veins even than the weight of Izaya’s fingers against his scalp. “I’m not going to be the reason you miss lunch _and_ dinner both.”

Izaya heaves a sigh so put-upon it ruffles at the collar of Shizuo’s shirt. “Fine,” he allows, sounding like he’s granting some enormous concession instead of agreeing to one of the necessities of existence. “Let’s go out.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows jump up. “I thought you said it was too cold.”

“It is,” Izaya says, and then he’s sitting up all at once, pushing to upright on the couch before Shizuo can make sense of what he’s doing. His fingers slide away from Shizuo’s hair, his knee shifts to press hard against the couch cushion, and then he’s scrambling to his feet before Shizuo has quite caught up to the sudden loss of the warmth of Izaya’s body against him. “It’ll be faster this way, though.”

Shizuo moves to sit up from the couch, somewhat more sedately than Izaya did, and lifts a hand to push through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth it out of the completely obvious signs of Izaya’s fingers caught in it. “Faster?”

“Yes.” Izaya is moving towards the entryway and sitting at the edge as he reaches for his shoes; it’s only as he catches his fingers into the heels and pulls them towards him that he looks back to flash a lopsided smile at Shizuo on the couch. “So we can finish eating and get back here sooner.”

Shizuo has been kissing Izaya for hours, now, judging from the dim silver of twilight that has fallen on the other side of the windows; his hair is tangled, his mouth aches, his fingers are printed over with the texture of Izaya’s skin against them. He ought to be satisfied, ought to have had enough of Izaya for the span of one day, ought to be able to shrug off the low purr of suggestion in Izaya’s voice into a laugh. But Izaya’s smile feels like fire in his veins, and the dull throb at his mouth feels like a plea for more, and when he moves it’s more because the distance between them feels suddenly unbearable than from any more rational thought. Izaya’s still smiling when Shizuo drops to kneel next to him, his expression melting into softness as he turns his head up towards the others, and his lips are parted as Shizuo leans in to kiss them, the happiness at his mouth giving way seamlessly to the soft friction of his lips against Shizuo’s and the heady catch of licorice in Shizuo’s nose when he inhales.

It takes them longer than it should to get their shoes and jackets on and make it out the door, with the constant pausing for Izaya to ruffle his fingers in against Shizuo’s hair or for Shizuo to fit a kiss against the side of Izaya’s neck over the soft fur at the collar of his coat, but neither of them are paying any attention to the time anyway.


	53. Surrender

Dinner takes longer than Shizuo had expected. He had some half-formed idea of arriving at the restaurant, ordering a few plates of sushi, and returning to Izaya’s apartment within the hour; but the walk is slower than usual in the snow, and the restaurant is crowded with couples out to celebrate the holiday, and by the time they run into Celty and Shinra Shizuo is already resigned to a far longer outing than he originally anticipated. It’s nice to see their friends, and explaining the shift in he and Izaya’s relationship to a rapt Celty is a pleasant way to pass the time while they wait for their meal to arrive; but it still takes well over an hour before they’re finishing, and by the time the two of them wave a goodbye to bemused Celty and effusive Shinra Shizuo feels the absence of Izaya’s touch like a physical craving strong enough to overcome his idle interest in a cigarette. He smokes one on the way back to Izaya’s apartment as the next best thing to what he wants to do, which is wrap his arm around Izaya’s shoulders and kiss the snow-cold flush off the other’s cheeks, but it doesn’t help much; he’s still all but trembling with want by the time they arrive at Izaya’s floor, and Izaya takes the lead down the hallway with a speed that suggests he is feeling the tension as clearly. He has the door open by the time Shizuo has caught up to him, is turning back as quickly as they step through the entrance, and Shizuo is reaching out for him before the door has well shut behind them. Izaya lets himself topple backwards, collapsing against the wall at his back as if he’s melting to Shizuo’s touch, and then Shizuo has his fingers curling against the back of Izaya’s neck and his mouth pressing to the soft of Izaya’s lips and he forgets everything else for a long, hazy span of time. Izaya’s hands catch at his clothes, Izaya’s lashes flutter dark into surrender, and Shizuo shuts his eyes and breathes in deep and loses himself to the relief of having Izaya against him again.

Rationality surfaces slow. It’s tension, first, the prickling awareness of discomfort against his spine like some task left undone, some responsibility forgotten; and then Izaya makes a faint sound against Shizuo’s mouth, something bordering on the verge of a moan against the other’s tongue, and Shizuo’s whole body flushes with heat he can’t fight back. He can feel the tension low in his stomach, can feel the rush of his heartbeat echoed in the heat in his veins, and he’s pulling back before he can think and blurting “I should go home” before the arousal against his spine takes over his voice to say something far more direct.

Izaya’s lashes shift, his eyes opening to stare up at Shizuo with heat-hazed confusion for a long moment. It’s not until he blinks that the distraction clears, that his forehead creases as the soft of his mouth compresses into a line of unhappiness that Shizuo can feel like a physical blow against his chest.

“No,” Izaya snaps. “No, you should _not_ go home.” His fingers make a fist against Shizuo’s shirt collar, his arm tightening like he intends to hold Shizuo where he is by physical force. “What do you need to go home for?”

“It’s getting late,” Shizuo attempts, his attention slipping away from the confusion in Izaya’s eyes and down to the frown weighting the corners of the other’s mouth. There’s an urge in him, an impulse to lean back in and smooth away the unhappiness in Izaya’s expression under the press of his lips instead; but the heat in his veins is aching towards pain, and if they go back to kissing he has no idea when he’ll be able to make himself pull away again. “I have to walk home in the snow.”

“I’ll call you a taxi,” Izaya says, biting off the words into sharp edges as his fingers clench tighter on Shizuo’s collar. Shizuo can’t make himself look at the other’s face, can’t stand to see the confused hurt rising behind the saturated color of Izaya’s eyes, not when he doesn’t know what he might surrender in an effort to ease that unhappiness. “You’ve stayed later before, what’s making you so impatient to leave now?”

“It’s snowing,” Shizuo attempts. He can’t meet Izaya’s gaze, can’t let the heat he’s sure is radiant behind his own expression up to the light, but it’s pulling him in closer anyway, his whole body is tipping forward as if Izaya is magnetized and Shizuo is iron drawn irresistibly nearer. Izaya’s hair smells like licorice, like himself, and for a moment Shizuo gives in to impulse and breathes in to fill his lungs with the bittersweet aroma that is only ever Izaya to him, now. “It’s getting dark already.”

“And you’re afraid of the dark all of a sudden?” Izaya doesn’t lift his head into the suggestion of a kiss; Shizuo is distantly grateful, is sure he’d never be able to resist the temptation if offered, but there’s a vicious edge under Izaya’s voice that is chilling the aching want in him into the leading edge of concern. “Just stay the night here if you’re so worried about it.” Shizuo’s breath catches, his imagination flaring to Izaya drawing him into the bedroom he almost never sees, Izaya’s hold on his shirt pulling him down against the tangle of the sheets under them, Izaya--

“Fuck,” he groans, and shuts his eyes as if that will be enough to push away the fantasy given too much clarity by the day’s developments, as if that will be enough to tamp down the surge of want that says to push Izaya back against the wall and crush the frown at his mouth to softness, that’s demanding that Shizuo free his hold at the collar of Izaya’s jacket and reach out for the other’s skin instead, slide his fingers up under the soft dark of Izaya’s shirt and against the shudder of breathing in his chest to fit his palm to the pound of the other’s heart, to feel the heat of Izaya’s existence pressing against the span of his fingertips. “I _can’t_.”

There’s a beat of silence, a breath of complete stillness in the space between Shizuo’s body and Izaya’s. Shizuo can hear the breath Izaya takes, can hear the way tension strains it on emotion even before: “Fine,” harsh and brittle and razor-edged in the back of the other’s throat. “Get out, then.”

Shizuo blinks. The burning edge of barely-repressed desire in his chest flickers and retreats to make space for the beginnings of worry for the audible hurt under Izaya’s tone. He draws back by a half-inch, just enough so he can look down; but Izaya’s staring straight ahead at Shizuo’s shoulder, his mouth set and chin tipped away, and Shizuo can’t see his eyes at all.

“Izaya.” Izaya’s jaw tightens, his fingers clench tighter at Shizuo’s collar. Shizuo can feel his forehead crease on concern. “Are you _angry_?”

Izaya doesn’t raise his chin. “Get out.”

“Wait.” Shizuo tips his head, trying to see under the shadow cast by the fall of Izaya’s hair. “Look at me.”

Izaya turns his head down farther, drawing back against the wall as his shoulders hunch into a protective curl that aches agony into Shizuo’s chest to see. “Go _home_ , Shizuo.”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo groans, and reaches out to press his fingers against Izaya’s chin and turn the other’s face up to the light. Izaya’s head tips up, his hair falls away from his eyes, and for a moment his expression is completely unrestrained, the motion too fast for him to block himself off with the wall he retreats behind whenever conversations go down a route he doesn’t want. His mouth is trembling, his eyes are soft with hurt; he looks like he’s about to cry, Shizuo can see the shine of tears collecting against the dark of Izaya’s lashes. It’s like the last several hours haven’t happened at all, as if all the warmth Shizuo has to offer to Izaya has iced over with a single misstep on his part, and when Shizuo sighs it comes out heavy with frustration more for himself than for Izaya.

“Fuck,” he says, and lets Izaya’s chin go so he can shove his hand through his hair instead in pursuit of some kind of solution. “You act like I’m abandoning you. I don’t _want_ to leave.” It seems like a perfectly obvious statement, like he’s saying the sky is blue or that the sun will rise in the morning; but Izaya is watching him with the misery behind his eyes giving way to uncertainty, like even this universal truth is too much for him to quite believe. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not going anywhere?”

Izaya’s mouth sets. “You’re going right now.”

Shizuo groans. “It’s _one night_ , not forever.” He reaches back out for Izaya’s shoulder and closes his fingers tight against the other to pin him back against the wall behind him, as if maybe the force of his hold will prove what his words aren’t, that letting go of Izaya after so long wanting him is so difficult he is barely managing the necessity of it. Izaya lets himself be pushed back, tips into submission against the support at his shoulders; but his mouth is still shaky, his lips are still caught on a frown, and Shizuo doesn’t know how to convince him with anything except for the truth.

“Look,” he says, and then has to pause, has to pull his thoughts into perfect clarity so he can force his way through the next sentence without stumbling over his own words. Izaya just waits, his eyes dark on that awful uncertainty, and Shizuo can feel himself already burning with embarrassment but he can’t stay quiet, not with Izaya so clearly convinced Shizuo is leaving him for some reason other than the obvious one. “I’m going home so I can jerk off before you kill me with another three hours of teasing.”

It works, at least. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his mouth comes open on a faint exhale of shock; Shizuo can feel himself flushing with self-consciousness but he keeps talking anyway, determined to see this conversation through to the end no matter how much his spine is prickling with embarrassment. “It’s a little weird to fantasize about you when you’re on the other side of a bedroom door.”

Izaya blinks. He’s still staring at Shizuo with shock all across his face; there’s something not-quite-focused about his eyes, like he’s looking through the other and at something completely different. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a little fainter than usual, a little higher in his throat. “You’re right, Shizuo, that _is_ weird.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale of relief. His face is still burning with a blush, but at least this conversation will be over soon, and if it chased away the hurt from Izaya’s eyes the sacrifice of his own composure is a small price to pay. “So I have to leave,” he says, feeling the ache in his stomach resume now that his concern is abating, the heat in his body reminding him of how hard he’s been and for how much of the day. “The sooner the better, actually.”

“You don’t,” Izaya says, still in that distant, contemplative voice, and then his lashes shift, and his vision comes back into focus at the same time that he reaches out to slide his fingers against Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo’s breath catches in his throat, his body responding as if commanded by the ghosting touch of Izaya’s fingers, and then Izaya grabs at his beltloop and pulls so hard that Shizuo’s unsteady balance gives way completely to send him stumbling forward. He has to take a step to catch himself and keep from crushing Izaya back against the wall with the weight of his body, and Izaya -- Izaya is curving in towards him, his whole body shifting fluidly off the wall to press suddenly flush against Shizuo’s. Shizuo’s foot is between Izaya’s, his leg fitting between the other’s knees; the smooth shift of Izaya’s motion presses them close together and pins Izaya’s jeans hard against Shizuo’s thigh, and for a moment every thought in Shizuo’s head goes blank as he feels how hard Izaya is against him. His lungs catch a breath for him, his hand comes out to grab at Izaya’s hip, and Izaya is purring up at him, his eyes gone as dark as Shizuo has ever seen them, his lips parting to make an offer of his mouth even as he speaks. “It’s a lot less weird if we’re on the same side of the door.”

“Shit,” Shizuo gasps. “It’s been half a day, Izaya, I can’t go to bed with you _tonight_.”

“It’s been _six years_ ,” Izaya tells him. His gaze drops from Shizuo’s eyes to his lips, his lashes fluttering to heaviness as he tips his chin up into suggestion, as his head angles to the side to make a temptation of the curve of his throat. “What else do you have to give me as a Christmas present?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Shizuo says, feeling his heart racing to overdrive in his chest as his better judgment wages a losing battle against the want pounding into his pulse like a drumbeat made of raw heat too-long restrained. He’s leaning in, he can’t help it, and Izaya’s turning his head to match Shizuo’s, his lips parting to suggestion as the force of his hands drags Shizuo closer bodily. Shizuo can feel his self-restraint thrumming along his spine, straining itself to the breaking point as Izaya arches off the wall in an attempt to get closer even than he already is. “I’m not going to sleep with you for Christmas.”

Izaya’s lashes dip. “No?” When he moves it’s to straighten off the wall, to take an impossible step closer against Shizuo’s body; his balance is unsteady, his footing uncertain, and Shizuo is moving without thinking, his hand sliding up from Izaya’s hip and under the other’s jacket to catch against the curve of Izaya’s back under his touch. Izaya tips back, his weight leaning hard at the support of Shizuo’s hand as the soft of his mouth curves up into a smile with some of the lopsided amusement Shizuo is so accustomed to. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Shizuo?”

Shizuo is sure Izaya can feel the way his whole body flares to heat, the way his already-hard cock jerks with impossibly greater want against the front of his slacks. “God,” he gasps, and tries to take a step back, tries to gain enough distance to collect himself from the too-vivid imagination of Izaya’s fingers in his hair, Izaya’s knees spread wide around him, Izaya moaning heat against the breathless part of Shizuo’s mouth. Izaya follows, unstoppable and immediate, and all Shizuo can taste in the air is licorice. “Of _course_ I--”

“You could,” Izaya cuts him off. He’s moving forward, pressing hard against Shizuo and not easing his hold at the other’s slacks, and Shizuo stumbles backwards, his balance giving way as if Izaya’s urging is a gravity all its own, as if the world is tipping under their feet to drop them into each other’s arms again. Izaya’s eyes are darker than Shizuo has ever seen them before, his lashes shadowing the blown-wide black of his pupils until Shizuo can barely see the shading of red he knows is there; he looks dizzy, looks intoxicated, his focus caught and tangled at Shizuo’s mouth instead of meeting the other’s gaze. “Tonight. Right now.”

“Shit,” Shizuo says, and runs hard into the couch behind him. He loses his balance and reaches out to catch himself instinctively against what support Izaya offers, and as he falls to sit against the arm of the furniture his hands slide into symmetry, his fingers spreading out to catch the width of Izaya’s hips between the span of his palms. “Don’t tease me.”

Izaya shakes his head. “I’m not teasing you,” he purrs, and then he’s leaning forward, sliding one knee up to press close against the other’s hip before he braces a hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and tips in to straddle the other’s lap. Shizuo can’t help the sound he makes in the back of his throat any more than he can help the way his cock aches heat against Izaya pressing against him, the way electricity flares to fire along his spine as his fingers tense at Izaya’s hips and he pulls to drag the other closer. His self-control is gone, his actions are given over entirely to reflex; his hands are pulling, his hips rocking up, and against him Izaya is gasping, is arching forward to grind himself hard against Shizuo’s hips with as much elegance as instinct can provide to the fluid motion of his body. Shizuo presses his face in against Izaya’s shoulder, turns his head to gasp heat against Izaya’s throat as his legs angle wider, as his hips buck up, and then Izaya arches hard against him and upsets their too-precarious balance entirely. Shizuo’s falling backwards, his throat giving a brief, wordless sound of shock, and in the heartbeat of panicked awareness he has to brace for impact it’s Izaya he reaches for, catching his arm tight around the other’s waist to hold Izaya against him for what buffer Shizuo’s body can give to their landing. Izaya’s arm tightens around Shizuo’s neck, holding them close together like he’s reading the other’s intention, and then Shizuo’s shoulders hit the couch, and Izaya hits his chest, and the grip of heat on his body jolts free to leave him breathless and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling overhead.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says as soon as he can find the air to speak again. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Izaya says against the side of Shizuo’s neck, and when he moves it’s to rock himself forward, to arch his hips down to grind against Shizuo’s as if he intends to resume right where they left off. Shizuo’s shoulders tense, his breathing rushes out of him in a strangled groan, and when he grabs at Izaya’s hips it’s with that same instinctive need to have the other closer, to hold him still so Shizuo can push up against the resistance of Izaya’s leg braced between his. Izaya lets Shizuo’s neck go, reaches to grab at the far edge of the couch instead, and then he’s moving again, with renewed purpose and force granted by him maneuvering his knee between Shizuo’s to brace against the cushions under them. His weight rocks forward, his thigh pressing in against Shizuo at the same time he grinds himself against the resistance of the other’s hip, and Shizuo’s head is spinning and his cock is aching and everything is hot, hazy and overwhelming until he can’t figure out if he wants to slow down or stop or shove Izaya back against the support of the couch and press against him until he finds satisfaction against the sharp angles of the other’s body.

“ _God_ ,” he groans, not sure whether he’s protesting or pleading for more. When he reaches out it’s Izaya’s hip his touch lands at, his fingers tightening hard in a futile attempt to still the other long enough to catch his breath, long enough to catch his thoughts, long enough to remember why it is this ever seemed like anything other than a spectacularly good idea. He turns sideways, spilling Izaya into the narrow space between his body and the back of the couch, and Izaya makes some sound made of absolute heat, the resonance of it purring up his throat as he hooks his leg up and around Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo hisses and reaches out to hold Izaya still for a moment, for a breath, but his hand lands at Izaya’s thigh, his fingers spreading wide to catch the strain of the other’s movement against his palm, and for a moment all he can do is gasp himself through white-out electricity while Izaya’s hips rock forward to buck hard against him again.

“Izaya,” Shizuo manages. Izaya’s hot under his touch, his skin must be radiant for Shizuo to feel it so clearly through the denim of his jeans, and Shizuo’s fingers are sliding up of their own accord, seeking out the loose edge of Izaya’s shirt and the line of the other’s waistband with some half-formed thought that spirals off into impossible, shuddering heat in Shizuo’s imagination before it’s even formed. “Izaya, _fuck_ , just.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya groans, and Shizuo’s name sounds like sex on his tongue, the low vowels trembling in the back of his throat until Shizuo imagines he can feel them thrumming against Izaya’s chest pressed flush to him. “Don’t--”

“Hold _still_ ,” Shizuo insists, speaking fast before he can hear what Izaya wants him to not do, before he can piece together the command of _don’t stop_ that he won’t have any hope of resisting. His hands close at Izaya’s hips, his body acting of its own accord to push the distraction of Izaya’s mouth and hands and hips away for the breath of calm Shizuo needs to collect himself. Izaya goes easy, falling backwards to land over the cushions underneath them, and Shizuo turns to follow him, inverting their positions so he can hold the desperation of Izaya’s movements down to enforced stillness under the weight of his hands at the other’s body. His heart is pounding in his chest, beating so hard he feels dizzy with the rush of it, and under him Izaya’s eyes are blown out to black, his lips parted on breathing coming so hard Shizuo can hear the catch of every inhale the other takes.

“Just wait a second,” Shizuo begs, but Izaya’s fingers tighten at his neck, his lashes fluttering with heat that says Shizuo’s words are going utterly unattended. He rocks up against Shizuo’s hold, or tries to; the curve of his body stops against the grip of the other’s fingers at his hips as if it’s hit a wall. Shizuo realizes distantly how hard he’s pushing, realizes his hold must be printing bruises into the sharp lines of Izaya’s body under his; but when he tries to loosen his grip Izaya moves again, bucking up against his hands until Shizuo has to bear down the harder just to hold him still.

“Here,” Shizuo says, shifting his weight in an attempt to get better traction for his hold. “Just--” His knee slips against the couch, his weight falls forward to press hard against the front of Izaya’s jeans, and underneath him Izaya jerks, and gasps a strange, desperate inhale, and Shizuo can feel Izaya’s whole body shudder into unmistakable pleasure underneath him. Shizuo catches a breath, shocked out of any kind of clear thought, and Izaya--Izaya is trembling underneath him, tensing through waves of sensation that Shizuo can feel breaking against him like the ocean against a cliff-face. The hand at the back of his neck is tightening, Izaya’s fingers flexing and releasing in tiny involuntary shudders in time with the tremor tensing in his thighs; Izaya’s eyes are out-of-focus, his whole expression has gone slack for the ripples of pleasure running through him, and Shizuo is staring, feeling like his whole world has stopped in its tracks to give him this moment to watch Izaya coming underneath him. He can’t breathe, he thinks maybe he’s forgotten how; but it doesn’t matter, not when Izaya’s lashes are fluttering over heat-hazed vision and not when Izaya’s lips are parted on inhales that turn themselves over on the convulsive shudders running through him to come out as whimpering moans with every breath.

Shizuo doesn’t know how long it goes on. It can’t be more than a few heartbeats, realistically; but by the time Izaya sighs a last long exhale of relief and lets himself fall heavy over the cushions Shizuo feels like a lifetime has passed, feels like his whole existence is fundamentally changed by knowing, now, the way Izaya looks when he’s coming.

“Holy fuck,” he hears himself say, the words fainter than he expected them and breathless as if he’s been sprinting. “You just.”

Izaya blinks, lashes working over the color of his eyes, and closes his mouth on the heated gasp of breathing he’s been indulging in. Shizuo can see his gaze come back into focus, can see the dark weight of bone-deep satisfaction in the eyes fixed on him; there’s a flush across Izaya’s cheeks, a catch to the breathing at his damp lips. Shizuo can feel the tension of self-consciousness in the press of every individual finger at Izaya’s hips. “I barely touched you.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, and Shizuo’s never heard his voice sound like that before, sultry and purring and hot with all the seductive weight he has always so easily played at and never quite meant sincerely. Shizuo’s whole body thrums answering heat, responding to Izaya’s voice as if he’s an instrument being played by the vibration, and Izaya eases his bracing hold against the side of the couch and slides his hand down over his shirt without breaking eye contact. “You’re a real professional, Shizuo, clearly your skills are unparalleled.”

Shizuo almost laughs, thinks he would if his head weren’t ringing so struck-bell bright with the need to memorize every detail of this moment, every breath Izaya takes underneath him. “Shut up,” he says, the words more habit than intent. “I didn’t realize--”

Izaya’s mouth quirks at the corner. “That I wanted it that much?” he wants to know, and then there’s weight at the front of Shizuo’s slacks, Izaya’s fingers pressing against the soft of the fabric to scatter any coherency Shizuo might have had. “That I’m desperately hot for your inhuman strength?” Izaya’s voice makes the words an innuendo, makes them a whole novel of suggestion, and then his palm digs in against the front of Shizuo’s slacks and Shizuo’s breathing rushes out of him in a helpless groan, his hips bucking forward to shove against the resistance of Izaya’s hand against him. His eyes shut, his attention scattering to the sudden surge of heat in him, and Izaya’s fingers are trailing over his clothes, the movement slow with appreciation even before he catches his thumb against the button of the other’s slacks. “Come on, Shizu-chan, I thought you put two and two together when you set my fingers that one time.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo attempts, but the command lacks any force even to his own ears, and Izaya’s pulling his zipper open and he’s not sure he believes this is really happening but he is sure he doesn’t want it to stop. “Fuck, _Izaya_.”

“Right,” Izaya purrs. “I forgot.”

Shizuo’s distraction melts into a laugh for a moment, even the slide of Izaya’s touch slipping over his stomach and under the waistband of his boxers set aside for a moment of amusement so warm and glowing it’s indistinguishable from adoration in his throat.

“You didn’t,” he says without even the illusion of irritation on his tone. “You never--” and Izaya’s touch brushes against him, the weight of fantasy becoming real under his fingertips, and Shizuo’s thoughts scatter as his hips buck forward with involuntary force to push desperately against Izaya’s hand. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, and then he’s reaching in farther, his fingers dragging and sliding and curling into a grip around the heat of Shizuo’s cock and it’s too much, already it’s too much to have the tension of those fingers weighting against his skin. Shizuo’s hands are flexing, he can’t stop them, he’s going to leave bruises where he’s holding Izaya down, and then Izaya’s wrist shifts and he strokes up over Shizuo’s length and Shizuo groans himself into a surge of desperation and frees his hand from Izaya’s hip to grab at his shoulder instead. His fingers press against the neckline of Izaya’s shirt, his palm drags at bare skin, and his thumb settles against the curve of Izaya’s throat like it was meant to be there, like it’s seeking out the rhythm of Izaya’s heartbeat as a guide for Shizuo’s own. Izaya’s heart is pounding, Shizuo can feel the too-fast flutter of it against his thumb; but then, so is his own, he’s feeling lightheaded from the desperate lungfuls of air he’s managing, and Izaya is still stroking over him, his fingers tightening closer against Shizuo’s cock with every drag of friction he offers.

“You were right,” Izaya says, his voice strange and distant against the roaring heat in Shizuo’s ears, laid over the thudding awareness that _Izaya’s fingers are around me, Izaya’s hands are on me, Izaya is_ touching _me._ “Sex tonight would have been a really bad idea.” His grip tightens, his wrist flexes. “I’m going to need at least a week of prep to take you, Shizuo.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, because his shoulders are straining on heat and his cock is aching under Izaya’s touch and now his imagination is flaring too, is suggesting Izaya sprawled over the sheets of his bed, Izaya gasping as he works elegant fingers inside himself, Izaya’s legs around Shizuo’s hips and his hands in Shizuo’s hair and Shizuo over him just like they are now, bracing Izaya still as he rocks forward to slide into the heat of the other’s body. Shizuo can’t breathe, he can’t think, Izaya’s stroking over him and he’s leaning forward to gasp at the other’s shoulder, to turn his face in and breathe in the damp of overheated air from the curve of Izaya’s throat under his lips. “ _Izaya_.”

“I should have known” Izaya says. Shizuo can feel the purr of the sound humming under his lips, can feel the flutter of Izaya’s pulse beating rapidfire under the weight of his thumb. “I always said you were a monster.” He shifts, his head turning in against Shizuo’s; when he speaks next his lips drag against the curve of Shizuo’s ear, his breathing spills to heat over the other’s skin. “I had no idea I was so right.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo starts, not sure what he wants to say, tasting affection and adoration and arousal all tangling together into some all-encompassing confession in the back of his throat, and Izaya’s fingers slide over him and it all melts down to a groan, to heat pressing close against Izaya’s skin from Shizuo’s lips as if to fit them into the same span of existence. Shizuo’s hips rock forward without his intention, following the rhythm of some deep-laid instinct just as surely as the racing thud of his heart is, and Izaya is gasping as if he’s the one on the verge of orgasm again, his whole body going taut under Shizuo’s as if he’s holding the entirety of Shizuo’s anticipation on the other’s behalf. His hand is tangling into Shizuo’s hair, his grip is sliding up over the heat of Shizuo’s cock, and Shizuo wishes he could see, wishes he could watch, but he wants everything all at once, wants to see Izaya’s fingers pulling over him at the same time he can feel Izaya trembling underneath him and while he’s still drawing long, overhot inhales from the radiance of Izaya’s throat under his lips. Shizuo’s moving, he thinks, taking tiny half-formed thrusts forward to match the stroke of Izaya’s hand; or maybe it’s Izaya moving under him, or maybe it’s just the pattern of their breathing falling into sync that has Shizuo so dizzy on heat. Izaya’s fingers slide up, the texture of his palm warm and close and dragging, and Shizuo can feel everything in him drawing to a single point of tension, can feel the weight of anticipation laying itself across his shoulders until it’s too much even for him, until even his strength gives way to the force. His hips jerk, his throat works, and he just has time to hear “ _Izaya_ ” drawn to a desperate, wide-open plea before relief breaks over him and crushes away anything but the immediate sensations between each beat of his heart. He’s coming, each pulse of heat spilling across Izaya’s wrist and bracing fingers, and Izaya is gasping for air, half-moaning through his exhales as if he’s shuddering through orgasm all over again. The idea brings another flush of heat with it, laces Izaya’s skin over with another spill of come, and then the tension fades to satisfaction, and Shizuo’s body goes slack with relief, and for the first few seconds it’s all Shizuo can do to breathe, to catch the taste of Izaya’s skin against his lips and let the languid pleasure of that hum contentment through the whole of his body.

It’s some time later that Shizuo thinks to shift, that he comes back into himself enough to realize that he’s pinning Izaya down to the cushions by his grip, that the other won’t be able to shift free even if he tries. He determines to move to ease his hold, to drag his hands free of the warmth of Izaya’s skin; but it still takes a moment before his sated body will respond, and even then his movement is slow, heavy like he’s dragging himself through syrup, or maybe like he’s struggling against the magnetic force of Izaya’s skin that wants him to stay close, closer, as close as he can fit himself now that he has the option.

“God,” he says, incoherent and half-voiced as he shifts and succeeds in easing his hand away from Izaya’s shoulder and freeing the rhythm of the other’s pulse to visibility from under the cover of his thumb. “Izaya.”

Izaya takes a breath, the sound loud enough that Shizuo can hear the catch of air in the back of the other’s throat, and when he moves it’s to let his grip on Shizuo go to pull hard at the other’s hip instead. He’s pulling straight down, like he wants the full weight of Shizuo lying atop him; but Shizuo tips sideways instead, sparing Izaya from taking the burden of his pleasure-languid form but leaving his arm where it is across the other’s shoulders. He turns his head against the cushions under him, blinking himself back into focus as Izaya tips his head to meet his gaze, and for a moment they just stare at each other in silence, Izaya’s eyes still dark with lingering heat and his mouth gone soft, now, absent either the tension of panic he had in the entryway or the curve of satisfied delight from a few minutes ago. He looks calm, right now, with his lashes dipping heavy over the clarity of his gaze and his lips barely parted on the rhythm of his breathing, looks relaxed in a way Shizuo has never seen him, like he’s finally been freed of some tension Shizuo hadn’t even realized was there. Izaya’s gaze shifts, sliding down over Shizuo’s features like he’s mapping them, like he’s touching his fingertips to the other’s skin, and Shizuo can feel awareness of that gaze shiver down the whole of his spine as Izaya takes a breath to speak.

“Do you still need to go home?”

Shizuo can feel amusement spill out into his body, can feel it humming warm under all his skin as his lips curve up into a wholly irrepressible smile. Izaya’s forehead creases, his lips parting on an inhale as his eyes flicker with uncertainty, but Shizuo’s leaning in already, closing the gap between them to bump his forehead to Izaya’s and ease away that momentary strain with the comfort of physical contact. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his gaze shifting over Shizuo’s too-close features, and “I’ll call a taxi,” Shizuo tells him before pressing the hesitation off Izaya’s lips with the weight of his own.

He’s happy to stay as long as he can. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.


	54. Quiet

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls as much to the winter-chill of the air around them as to Izaya leading the way down the sidewalk away from the headquarters they’ve just left. “I hate visiting them.”

“I don’t know why,” Izaya says, sounding a little bit sincere and mostly amused. “The Awakusu-kai have never been anything but perfectly polite to both of us.”

“They’re _yakuza_.” Shizuo finds his box of cigarettes in his pocket and slides one free to set against his lips. “They’ve probably killed people.”

“Probably several people. What’s the problem here?”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo says, looking sideways just as Izaya flourishes a lighter at him without looking. He reaches out to slide the weight of the silver from the other’s fingers; he’s fairly sure it’s his own, or at least that he purchased it and ostensibly owned it for a brief period of time, but he’s found that any lighter he has in his pocket inevitably ends up in Izaya’s within a day of purchase, and it’s easier and certainly cheaper to just let Izaya maintain a monopoly on them. It’s not as if they’re any less accessible in Izaya’s hand than in Shizuo’s own. “They’re dangerous and you know it.”

Izaya looks at him sideways, raising an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth as Shizuo flicks the lighter open and brings it to the end of his cigarette. “And you could take out everyone in the room. They’re dangerous, and we’re dangerous, and we all know it so there’s no problem.”

“Says the adrenaline junkie,” Shizuo says without any heat. He closes the lighter and offers it back again; Izaya holds his hand out expectantly, like he’s waiting for an offering from a loyal subject, and Shizuo presses the smooth metal between their palms for a moment. Izaya’s fingers curl around the shape, his wrist flexing slightly under Shizuo’s fingertips; and then he draws his hand away to slide the lighter back into his pocket, and Shizuo lets his hand fall back to his side once more. “I haven’t trusted your sense of danger since middle school.”

“Mm,” Izaya purrs. “You’re smarter than you look, you know, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Shut up” but the words come as gently as his sideways lean to bump against Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya pushes back just as hard with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Shizuo can’t help but grin in return, can’t hold onto his protective worry in the face of the purring adrenaline running happiness through him instead of anger, and when he pulls his cigarette away from his lips it’s to sigh away his worry along with the smoke of his first inhale.

“I don’t get why he’s getting info from you in the first place,” he says, letting idle curiosity take the place of concern. “Why do the yakuza care about high school gangs anyway?”

“You’re underestimating high schoolers,” Izaya informs him. “Just because the color gangs start as kid games doesn’t mean they stay that way. Anything with enough people behind it can become something powerful. Shiki-san is just protecting his interests by staying on top of the news before it becomes a problem.”

“You make it sound like the city is just an explosion waiting to happen.”

“It is,” Izaya agrees without hesitation. “Like a fuse waiting for a spark.” He takes a breath, as if he’s bracing himself, and then draws his hand back out of the pocket of his jacket. “Everyone’s dangerous.”

When Shizuo looks over at him Izaya’s not watching him -- he’s looking straight ahead, his jaw set like he’s completely enraptured by the ordinary scene of the street in front of them -- but his fingers are tense at his side, his hand curled into the appearance of unconscious relaxation but with too much strain at his wrist and shoulder to quite pass as such. Izaya’s thumb shifts as Shizuo watches, trembling with the faintest hint of adrenaline, and Shizuo can feel his heart skid faster in his chest like it’s answering the motion.

“Yeah?” Shizuo says without really thinking about what he’s saying. He’s looking at Izaya’s hand instead, at the deceptively casual curl of those fingers like they’re waiting something to close around, like they’re making the offer that Izaya isn’t putting words to. Shizuo’s sleeve is already catching at Izaya’s; it’s almost no movement at all to reach up to press his fingers to the soft fur lining the cuff of the other’s coat. Izaya’s hand shifts to the idle weight, his wrist turning out to make space for Shizuo’s touch, and Shizuo lets his fingertips slide down the silky give of the coat to bump against the inside of Izaya’s wrist instead, to trail out across the lines that traverse the warmth of Izaya’s palm like a map Shizuo can read under the weight of his touch. Izaya’s fingers shift, his thumb curls in to bump Shizuo’s, and Shizuo slides his hand down farther to lace his fingers into the spaces between Izaya’s. Izaya’s fingers shift, Shizuo can hear him take an inhale that comes louder than it ought against the cool of the air, and Shizuo tightens his hold into the gentle curl of affection around Izaya’s hand. “Us too?”

There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation while Izaya stays quiet, while his fingers stay slack in Shizuo’s hold, as if he’s not sure, even now, that this allowed, that he dares to reciprocate this. Then he breathes out, the sound slow and deliberate, and Shizuo watches Izaya’s fingers flex and tighten around his hand to press responsive warmth into his skin.

“Yes,” Izaya says aloud, and when Shizuo looks up Izaya is watching him with a lopsided curve to his lips and so much softness in his eyes that Shizuo can feel it like sunshine against his skin, as if the chill of winter in the air is fading away just from the way Izaya is gazing at him. His fingers tense to press in hard against Shizuo’s; Shizuo can feel the pressure purring up the whole of his arm, can feel the comfort of Izaya’s hold as tight on his hand as if he never intends to let go. “ _Especially_ us.”

Shizuo can feel a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, the curve of it as irrepressible as the contentment warm in his veins. He leans in, tilting his weight sideways to press gentle force against Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya ducks his head and leans back harder, hard enough that Shizuo can feel the sharp line of the other’s shoulder pressing against his arm through the weight of his jacket. Shizuo turns his head half-towards Izaya and breathes in a lungful of cold air; the smell of Izaya’s hair clings to the chill, the faint hint of licorice sticks in the back of Shizuo’s throat. Izaya’s fingers tighten again, his grip tensing almost to the point of pain against Shizuo’s hand for a moment before he lets it ease, and Shizuo smiles and lets his thumb slide to press idle affection against Izaya’s skin.

Neither of them say anything else on the way home, but with Izaya’s fingers tight around his, Shizuo doesn’t notice the quiet.


	55. Adrenaline

From the doorway, Shizuo can’t make out what Izaya is saying.

He doesn’t care about the words. It’s not the absence of coherency in the sound of the other’s voice that is straining across his shoulders and gritting frustration along his jaw; Shizuo doesn’t often listen to the details of Izaya’s work negotiations, finds that they too often strain his worry to the breaking point and leave him jittery enough afterwards that he wants nothing so much as to carry Izaya back to his apartment bodily and lock the door to keep the threats the other so casually wades into as far away as possible. It’s some small comfort to have that possibility actually available to him now, to know that he _could_ step in and close his fingers into a hold around Izaya’s wrist without running the risk of outright rejection; but that knowledge does him no good at all when Izaya tells him to “Stay by the door” and strides forward into the shadows of the room without the least apparent concern for how much like a temptation to violence the fragile line of his shoulders and the mocking cut of his smile look. Shizuo stays where he’s told -- this is Izaya’s work, after all, and he knows enough to know that some measure of risk goes along with it -- but that doesn’t mean he has to like it, and it’s not enough to stop him from slouching against the edge of the doorframe with his arms crossed hard over his chest and doing his best to watch every shadow in the room at once. There are other people in the room, lurking in corners in clusters that are hard to see and harder to get a count of; but Shizuo cares far more about the way Izaya is walking away from him, about the gap of distance the other’s casual footsteps are putting between the too-delicate lines of his body and the protection Shizuo’s fists can offer. Shizuo fixes his attention at the back of Izaya’s shoulders, and scowls as if that’s likely to get him any reaction at all, and Izaya ignores him as thoroughly as if he’s not there at all, like he doesn’t need the confirmation of sight to know Shizuo is staying where he was told. He’s speaking instead, his voice low and inaudible except for those high notes on the almost-mocking lilt of his usual vocal range, and Shizuo watches him move, watches the tilt of Izaya’s shoulders and the angle of his head sweep through the motions of tense negotiation as if through the steps of a dance.

It’s striking to watch. Shizuo can admit that much, even if he doesn’t like how far away Izaya is; there’s a show, here, something like a performance going on that Shizuo never sees in the all-too-common interactions Izaya has with his connections in the yakuza. Those are almost casual, low conversations in plush cars that circle blocks before depositing them back on the sidewalk where they were first picked up, or easy chats over soft couches where Shizuo can sit immediately alongside Izaya and feel confident, at least, in his proximity to the other in case of a crisis. But this is taut, there’s tension thrumming through the air with every word Izaya or the woman he’s speaking to voices, and Shizuo isn’t sure what the angle of her knees or the click of her nails is meant to signify but he can read Izaya like a book even across the shadowy distance of the room, can see the taunting self-confidence written in the angle of his wrist at his side and the tilt of his head against the collar of his coat. It’s all a show, a facade for the benefit of the strange woman now sliding off her barstool to step forward across the gap between herself and Izaya’s easy stance in the middle of the floor; but that doesn’t make it less convincing, not when every aspect of the display is so perfectly calibrated. It’s eerie, really, to see the Izaya Shizuo knows so entirely hidden behind the brittle shine of this face the other puts on, with the bright smile and the laughter in his voice and the reckless disregard for his personal safety -- and then Izaya’s fingers twitch, his right hand shifts to flex his fingers against the shadow of his coat, and Shizuo’s attention spikes at once, adrenaline rushing sudden and hot into his veins as he straightens at the door. Izaya’s not stepping away, not falling back or looking over his shoulder at Shizuo, but Shizuo knows what he saw, and when he looks around the rest of the room the other figures are moving too, unfolding from their shadows to press threat down against the pair standing isolated in the center of the room. Shizuo takes a breath, ready to give voice to a warning at the same time he braces to step forward; and Izaya moves before he can speak, his hand sliding into his pocket at the same time he takes a step backwards. Shizuo’s breathing catches, his whole body tenses on the first surge of overwhelming adrenaline; and Izaya’s twisting, his hand coming out whip-quick to flash a blade up towards the closest of those moving figures, towards the shapes close enough to be called _attackers_ , now. There’s a screech of metal, blades catching and dragging over each other, and then red, a splash of color against dark clothes and pale skin, and Shizuo’s whole body goes hot, his throat tightens on his exhale to turn it dark and threatening, and he lunges forward towards Izaya.

There’s no time to think. There are enemies, a whole cluster of men and women closing in around Izaya at their center, the flash of illumination catching and glinting off the knife in Izaya’s bleeding hand, and Izaya’s moving, backing away instead of towards Shizuo, increasing the distance for the other to cross with every syrup-slow heartbeat of time that passes. He’s not turning his head, not so much as glancing back at Shizuo moving towards him; his gaze is still fixed on the woman they came here to meet, his smile going wide and bright until it’s caught at the edge of mania that still, even now, makes Shizuo’s memory flash to an open window and the backlit glow of sunlight around the narrow shoulders of a first-year in middle school. Shizuo’s heart skips, his breathing catching on something agonizingly balanced between affection and terror; but he’s closer, now, Izaya’s backed up against a wall and still clutching the handle of his knife, and every second the attackers hesitate to come in range of Izaya’s blade is another second for Shizuo’s body to move itself forward. His fist moves on its own, his body surging through the motions of violence too ingrained into the heat in his veins and the tension in his muscles to be forgotten even over months of peace, and when his knuckles connect with the side of an attacker’s skull Shizuo doesn’t even look to watch the collapse of a body gone boneless with unconsciousness, doesn’t pause for even a flicker of hesitation at his actions. There’s no regret in him, barely any thought; there’s just Izaya, leaning against the wall at his back with a careless slouch as if he’s just waiting for Shizuo to arrive, as if he doesn’t even notice the handful of attackers still trapping him against the wall. Shizuo seizes the closest one, fisting his grip into a hold against whatever clothing he can reach to lift the other off his feet and toss him aside and out of the way, and against the wall Izaya is relaxing, is letting his arm start to fall back to his side. He’s watching the woman, still, his eyes focused on her as his lips move through something Shizuo can’t hear over the chaos of the fight and the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. There’s only a pair of attackers left, now, one of them turned around to gape shock at Shizuo as if he’s never seen someone fight before; but the other is moving before Shizuo can shove him aside, taking advantage of Izaya’s distraction to lunge in and swing the weight of his fist towards the other’s face. Shizuo can see Izaya’s gaze flicker sideways, catching at the motion of the attacker’s action without enough time to do more than twist away in a quick, reflexive cringe from the impact. Shizuo sees the punch land, sees Izaya’s balance give way as he stumbles sideways at the force of the blow; and something inhuman erupts into his veins, some unstoppable force shoves him forward. His feet are moving, his legs throwing him forward with reckless haste, but he catches his balance as his fingers clench hard against his palm, has the whole of his weight solid as he turns to interpose his shoulder between Izaya and the attacker. The other man blinks, his attention starting to drift to Shizuo with slow-motion exaggeration, but if the other is caught by the delayed reaction of human reflex Shizuo is moving in doubletime, his arm swinging through a smooth arc to smash his fist with unerring precision against the fragile line of the other man’s nose. He can feel the shape of it crumple beneath his knuckles like concrete powdering to dust beneath the grip of his fingers, and he’s turning before the other has completed his involuntary collapse to the support of the floor, reaching out to slam the open weight of his palm against the chest of the last man standing. The other doesn’t try to fight, doesn’t even get a hand up to soften the blow; he just gasps a breathless attempt at air, his eyes going wide as he stumbles on unsteady legs, and Shizuo grabs his shirt one-handed to throw him back against the wall where the rest of his fellow attackers are standing or lying. Shizuo pivots on his heel, his heart still pounding and vision hyper-clear in expectation of another attack; but there’s no one left but himself, and the woman, and Izaya still on his feet, moving away from Shizuo again with a stride as easy and graceful as if he is resuming the steps of that briefly-halted dance, as if the whole span of the fight was just an interlude to the conversation he’s been having.

“That was clumsy,” he says, his voice brighter, now, louder than it was, so Shizuo can hear him clearly even past the thud of his blood rushing to adrenaline-heated steam in his veins. “Did you really think you were going to get the upper hand by throwing your toughest members at us?”

The woman isn’t watching Izaya. Her gaze is fixed on Shizuo, her eyes wide and mouth gaping; her feet shift as Shizuo steps forward, her heels slipping on the floor in a reflexive attempt at retreat stalled by the bar counter she’s pressed against. She catches a breath, her inhale sticking in her chest, and shakes her head in a rejection Shizuo thinks is more involuntary than deliberate.

“He’s not human,” she breathes, a terrified whisper meant more for herself than for either of them, still staring at Shizuo like he’s a nightmare, like he’s a monster, like he’s an unstoppable force coming for her destruction. Shizuo doesn’t care. He is, he is all of those things, Izaya is bleeding onto the floor and bruised to what must be agony across his jaw and this woman is responsible, and he is going to _destroy_ her. He takes a step forward, his hands drawing tight into fists in anticipation of the crush of bone, the heat of blood, the _breaking_ of this person who dared to hurt--and Izaya’s hand comes out, his fingers sliding and curling into a hold around Shizuo’s wrist as gentle as it is unbreakable, and Shizuo blinks, and turns his head, and the haze of red fades from his vision as quickly as the familiar features of Izaya’s face come into focus.

“Really,” Izaya says, drawing the word long and purring in his throat. He doesn’t turn his head to look at Shizuo, doesn’t show any sign of noticing the other’s eyes on him, but his fingers tremble against Shizuo’s wrist, the motion too minor to be seen but clear against the adrenaline heightening all Shizuo’s senses to crystalline clarity. “Is that what you think.”

The woman is still looking at them. Shizuo is aware of that, distantly, aware on the fringe of his consciousness of her eyes on him, on Izaya; but she’s not moving to make herself a threat, and Izaya isn’t easing his hold on Shizuo’s wrist, and so Shizuo keeps his focus on Izaya instead, on the electric crackle of excitement behind the other’s eyes that makes him look reckless, makes him look like danger incarnate in a dark jacket and bloodstained knuckles. Izaya’s head tips to the side, his smile dragging wide and lopsided, and Shizuo starts to speak, to say “Izaya,” with the intention of following this with a warning, or a growl, or a demand to let him free so he can deal with the initial cause for that bruise he can see faintly outlined against Izaya’s jaw. But Izaya’s fingers tense, press in hard against Shizuo’s skin in immediate response, and while Shizuo is falling to startled silence and looking down at the tension of Izaya’s bloody knuckles on his wrist the other is speaking, still in that clear, bright tone that makes it clear the words are intended for the woman in front of them as much as the pressure of his fingers is intended for Shizuo.

“We don’t know anything about Nakura,” he says, and Shizuo’s whole body tenses on the memory that comes with that name, as if he’s feeling all over again the distant ache of a knife cutting through his shirt and skin, as if he’s hearing an echo of Izaya’s voice breaking open on pain and arousal in equal parts. It catches his breath, and tightens his fingers, but Izaya doesn’t let his hold go, and even when Shizuo looks back up to the other’s face Izaya’s not looking at him, he’s staring at the woman before them with that set mania in his eyes and the curve of a private smile at his lips. Shizuo wonders what Izaya is thinking of, wonders if Izaya knows what he’s thinking of. It wouldn’t be the first time. “He’s gone, left town as soon as he got out of the hospital. He’s probably cities away by now, trying to forget Ikebukuro ever happened to him.” Izaya’s fingers flex against Shizuo’s wrist again, his hold shifting like he’s trying to get a better hold on the rhythm of the other’s heartbeat under his touch.

“Don’t worry about paying me,” he says, still without turning to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “Consider it an advance on future business deals.” And he’s turning, pivoting smoothly on his heel and moving towards the doorway without easing his hold on Shizuo’s wrist. It’s enough to tug Shizuo forward, to urge him to trail in Izaya’s wake; but he doesn’t need the urging, doesn’t need any additional motivation to stay as close to Izaya as he can, now that the other isn’t moving away with every step forward Shizuo takes. He moves in lockstep with Izaya through the shadows of the room, following the other’s lead through the scattered chairs and groaning forms of fallen attackers, and then Izaya pushes the door open and they’re stepping out into the glow of winter sunlight bright and near-blinding in comparison with the dark inside. Shizuo flinches at the illumination and ducks his head to the bright, and his gaze catches against Izaya’s fingers pressing hard at his wrist and the red trickling across the other’s knuckles to drip over Shizuo’s skin.

“You’re bleeding,” Shizuo says, his voice gentler than he was expecting it to sound with the evidence of Izaya’s injury right in front of him.

“It’s fine.” Izaya sounds strange, his voice strained; when Shizuo looks up at his face he’s still not meeting the other’s gaze. His eyes are fixed straight ahead of him, his jaw set on some unshakeable focus; he’s moving faster now that they’re outside, as if he’s as anxious to put distance between himself and danger as Shizuo is. “It’s a scratch.”

Shizuo frowns as the dismissive disregard in Izaya’s words. “It’s not,” he snaps, and pulls his hand free so he can step in closer, so he can reach out and grab at Izaya’s arm to keep him from skipping away and out-of-range again. Izaya’s head tips, his chin coming down so he can glance at Shizuo’s hold on his arm, and it’s then that Shizuo sees the smear of red at his mouth, the suggestion of blood catching at the corner of the other’s lip just above the bruise rising across his jawline. His breathing catches, his heart aches, and he’s lifting his hand without thinking, raising his free hand to touch his fingers to the color caught against the corner of Izaya’s mouth.

“Your lip too--” he starts, and then his thumb bumps against Izaya’s lip and Izaya’s mouth comes open as he whimpers a sound that jolts through all Shizuo’s blood like fire. Shizuo jerks back from the contact, his spine prickling electric with the rush of his heart pounding in his chest. “Did I--”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, and he’s moving faster, now, striding forward with such a rapid pace that Shizuo thinks it’s only his continued grip on the other’s arm keeping Izaya from breaking into a run. Izaya’s jaw is set, his gaze still fixed ahead of him as if he’s incapable of so much as glancing at Shizuo, but his cheeks are flushed to color, there’s the stain of heat darkening across his cheekbones, and whatever it is bringing his breathing to such audible speed it’s not pain, in spite of the blood at his lip and across his knuckles. “Shut up.”

Shizuo frowns at Izaya’s profile, his frustration going unseen or at least unacknowledged. “Izaya.”

“Shut _up_ ” Izaya snaps, and then he’s turning, twisting around the corner and down a side alley without any warning at all. Shizuo stumbles in his forward stride, his hold on Izaya’s arm tightening as he struggles to find his balance; then he gets his feet under him, growling incoherent protest to this sudden action, and turns to follow the lead Izaya so abruptly set. Izaya really is running now, or maybe he’s falling forward with only Shizuo’s hold at his arm to keep him upright; Shizuo tries to steady them, to pull them back into balance, but Izaya is still moving forward towards the alley wall, twisting in Shizuo’s hold to face the other just as Shizuo’s foot catches on the uneven pavement and his balance veers to send him stumbling forward. He has to throw his free hand out to catch himself before falling into Izaya, his palm smacking hard against the wall over the other’s shoulder, and he’s just blinking himself to focus, just starting in on “What--” that he intends to follow with _are you doing_ before there are fingers in his hair, and Izaya arching up off the wall in front of him, and the pressure of a greedy mouth crushing heat against his lips and stifling his question unformed. All the air leaves his lungs at once, spilling to the sharp edges of a startled curse against Izaya’s mouth; but Izaya’s fingers are curling into a fist at his vest, and Izaya is whining plaintive desperation against his mouth, and any protest Shizuo might have considered offering flickers out against the overwhelming distraction of Izaya kissing him. The lingering tension of worry along his spine eases, the adrenaline of violence in him melting and soothing itself into warmth instead; his hold against Izaya’s arm goes gentle, his whole body cants forward and in like it’s trying to be even a breath closer to Izaya in front of him. Izaya’s touch is dragging through his hair, Izaya’s fingers are bracing hard against the back of his neck, and when Izaya licks against his lips Shizuo parts them in obedient surrender to let the other press in against the heat of his mouth. There’s the tang of metal at the back of Shizuo’s tongue, the familiar bitter of licorice caught around the suggestion of blood from Izaya’s bleeding lip, and then Izaya’s teeth are catching at Shizuo’s lip and Shizuo can feel all his blood flare with immediate, responsive heat. He groans an exhale, his body tipping forward of its own accord, and against him Izaya is arching up to meet him, is twisting his arm free of Shizuo’s slack grip and reaching up to press both hands into Shizuo’s hair instead of just the one. He feels desperate, from the drag of his fingers to the straining arch of his back, and Shizuo has to pull back just to cling to some kind of rationality, has to gasp for air while he reaches to brace a steadying hold at Izaya’s hip.

“Jesus,” he manages, his fingers catching against denim, his thumb slipping across soft fabric. He just means to hold Izaya still, to brace the other against the effort thrumming to such strain under his skin, but Izaya’s shirt slides, Shizuo’s palm fits against warm skin, and Shizuo is huffing a breath of heat as backdrop to the shiver that he can feel run through Izaya against him, that he can see dip and flutter into weight at the other’s lashes. “What the _fuck_ , Izaya?” The words are harsh but his touch is gentle; Shizuo can’t pull his hand away, can’t resist the urge to slide his touch sideways and up, to fit the weight of his palm against the dip of Izaya’s spine and pull the other in close against him. Izaya’s lashes are heavy, his lips parted on the rush of his breathing; his gaze is sliding across Shizuo’s face, his focus catching and holding to the other’s mouth even as his head angles back against the wall as if to make a show of his throat for Shizuo’s consideration. Shizuo can see the flutter of Izaya’s pulse coming fast just under the taut curve of skin; he has to fight to remind himself where they are, to muster any situational awareness at all to keep him from taking that offering right now and losing himself completely to the demands of the moment. “Shouldn’t we at least go back to your apartment?”

“No.” Izaya’s answer comes fast, drawling to a purr in the back of his throat as his fingers slide down to curl against Shizuo’s vest and pull the other in closer against him. Shizuo takes a half-step in, close enough that the angle of his shoulders almost entirely hides Izaya from the rest of the world, and Izaya makes a low sound of appreciation in his throat and ducks in to shudder a breath against the collar of Shizuo’s shirt. “Here is fine.”

“Here is _not_ fine,” Shizuo attempts, but he’s losing what grasp he ever had on his resistance, he can feel it melting away with each of Izaya’s inhales against the fabric at his throat. Izaya shifts his feet, arching up off the wall to get closer, and Shizuo takes a step wider to steady his balance as Izaya’s weight shifts against the support of his hand at the other’s back. “We can’t just--” and Izaya curves up off the wall, his whole body rocking forward in one fluid motion to grind the angle of his leg hard against Shizuo’s slacks. Shizuo’s coherency gives way all at once, his words dying to a broken-off groan of heat as he drops his hand from the wall to seize Izaya’s hip instead and hold the other still while he tries to figure out if he is going to pull him closer or if he can muster the will to push him away. “ _Izaya_.”

“We can,” Izaya says, and the words are gasping in the back of his throat, he sounds like he’s panting for air he can’t find around him. “No one would stop us.” Izaya shifts again, his arm sliding closer around Shizuo’s neck, his mouth dragging up to breathe heat against the other’s throat; his leg hooks around Shizuo’s hip, his body arches forward to grind himself in closer, and Shizuo has to shut his eyes against the full-body tremor of want that hits him with as much force as his usual adrenaline surges do. Izaya’s lips catch at his hair, Izaya’s mouth drags against his ear; when the other speaks his voice is a whisper, like he’s sharing a secret for Shizuo’s attention. “No one would _dare_.”

“You’re crazy,” Shizuo says, his head spinning with heat and his nose full of the smell of licorice sharp enough to override even the tang of blood from Izaya’s cut hand. His hand against Izaya’s back slides up, his fingers press against the pattern of vertebrae marking out the curve under the other’s skin; when he leans forward he can press his face against Izaya’s neck, can fill his aching chest with the familiar bite of the other’s scent like he’s breathing steam into his lungs. “Do you get off on exhibitionism that much?”

“It’s not the exhibitionism,” Izaya tells him, his voice sliding over the edge of recklessness and into outright danger, and Shizuo doesn’t need to see his eyes to know how blown-dark they must be, doesn’t need anything but proof of the other’s voice to imagine the dip of dark lashes and the part of damp lips. Izaya rocks himself forward again, hanging on his hold around Shizuo’s shoulders as he grinds his hips forward hard against the other’s thigh, and for just a moment Shizuo can feel how hard Izaya is against him, can feel the heat and resistance of the other’s arousal pressing into him as if Izaya is wholly prepared to get himself off right here, if Shizuo is willing to hold still for it. The idea makes Shizuo shudder, pulls his hand down lower to slide against Izaya’s jeans and drag the other in close against him, and when he moves it’s reflexive, an involuntary forward motion that pins Izaya back against the wall and presses their hips flush together. Shizuo can feel the relief of the friction spike up his spine, can feel the demand for _more_ like a rhythm to replace the thud of his heart, and against him Izaya’s head goes back, his throat opening up on a whine as plaintive and desperate as anything Shizuo has ever heard from him.

“ _Fuck me_ , Shizu-chan,” is what Izaya says, and it’s half a plea and half an order, a command for Shizuo to act on those same impulses he is losing his grip on even now. For a moment Shizuo can see it clear, Izaya pinned back against the wall and his knees open around Shizuo’s hips, his whole body hot and radiant and--

“Don’t,” Shizuo gasps, struggling to pull himself back from the too-clear image, from the temptation so strong it’s surging like fire in his veins. He’s still holding Izaya back against the wall, still rocking against him in helpless, needy motions, and Izaya’s head is tipped to the side, the whole line of his throat a surrender and an offering that Shizuo knows he could take, knows he could _have_ , right now, just for the giving in to his own desperate instincts. But he can’t, he _won’t_ , Izaya deserves better than the rough use Shizuo’s body is screaming for, he deserves--

“I’m not,” Shizuo starts, and there’s a roar of frustration in his veins, the tension of want crackling through him until it’s all he can do to hold himself steady against it. He turns his head against Izaya’s neck, breathing in hard like the smell of the other’s skin is an offering to appease the want so violent in him, and some of the strain in his shoulders eases, some of the tension in his muscles gives way. He lifts his chin by an inch, enough to press his lips to Izaya’s skin in the weight of a kiss, and he can feel coherency returning to him, can feel the anxious edge of restraint pulling back to steadier ground, to more certain truth. “I’m not going to have sex with you in an _alley_.”

Izaya’s exhale comes out in a huff, broken down the middle by incredulous amusement. “You sure?” There’s a slide of friction over Shizuo’s shoulder, trailing down the front of his vest to his slacks; Shizuo has to shut his eyes as Izaya’s fingers slide over the weight of his cock inside his clothes, as the other’s palm presses the low ache of relief against him. He can’t help the sound he makes, can’t help the involuntary forward jerk of his hips, and Izaya’s leg is still caught around his hip, Shizuo can still feel Izaya as hard as he is against his thigh. “You sure seem like you’re trying.” His fingers slide closer, dragging up over Shizuo’s length through the weight of his clothes, and Shizuo’s voice breaks, his breathing catching to a whimper of near-painful desire against Izaya’s hair.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Izaya tells him. He’s shaking, Shizuo can feel him, from the bracing arm he still has around Shizuo’s neck to the press of his leg against the other’s hip; he turns his head in against Shizuo’s hair, his nose pressing against the other’s cheek so the spill of his words comes as the heat of temptation against Shizuo’s mouth. “Just give me a couple fingers and a little spit, I’m sure we’d be fine.”

Shizuo’s breathing huffs out of him at once, something between arousal and agony flaring in his veins at the thought of his hands bruising on Izaya’s skin, at the idea of shoving to force spit-damp fingers inside the other’s body, of feeling Izaya tense around the pressure, seeing Izaya shudder with--with the too-much friction, with the pain of Shizuo’s movement instead of the pleasure of it. “I’d _hurt_ you.”

“I don’t mind,” Izaya says, his words coming one atop the other with manic speed. “I’d probably come faster anyway.”

“God.” Shizuo has to shut his eyes to that, has to wait for the shadows of memory to give way, for the sound of Izaya’s voice breaking on a moan in the shadows of a dark basement to fade from his thoughts before he can trust his voice to clarity. “You really are a masochist.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, without even making an attempt at denial. He turns his hand and presses his palm in harder against the front of Shizuo’s slacks, the pressure sharp like he’s trying to drag arousal into Shizuo’s veins by force. “Come on, Shizuo, you know you want to.”

“I _do_ ,” Shizuo gasps, and he lets Izaya’s hip go and reaches to close his fingers around the other’s wrist instead. He can feel the strain of effort along Izaya’s arm as he pulls the other’s touch away from his clothes, can feel Izaya’s attempts to drag himself free fall into futility against the grip of Shizuo’s fingers on his arm. Shizuo pushes Izaya’s hand away, lifting it up to pin it to the wall above the other’s head, and Izaya shivers against him, his whole body tensing like Shizuo’s movement is electric. Shizuo can see the dark in Izaya’s eyes when he looks down at him, can see the invitation at the part of the other’s lips so desperate it’s almost a plea and he knows, knows absolutely, that he could shove Izaya back against the wall right here, that Izaya would let him do anything he wanted, would submit to Shizuo’s force almost before he asked for it. It would be so easy, it would be so _simple_ ; the want of it is all across Izaya’s face, dark behind his eyes and written into the tension of his arm under Shizuo’s fingers, Shizuo could own and have and _take_ , all he has to do is tighten his hold around Izaya’s arm and press the weight of dominance against the pale skin under his hand. Shizuo can feel the adrenaline rushing through him, can feel the whole of his strength waiting to descend and crush Izaya back against the wall; and he can feel Izaya’s wrist under his fingers, can feel the fragile line of bone pressing close against skin under the weight of his touch. He takes a breath, feels it pressing against the tension all through his body; and then he lets it go, and lets the adrenaline go, and lets himself settle back into the framework of his own body with something like relief along his spine.

“I do,” he repeats, tasting the desire on his tongue shift from something wild and destructive into heat, into warmth, into the ache of patient affection that he has borne for so long, that he knows almost as well as he knows the smell of Izaya’s hair and the color of his eyes. He eases his hold on Izaya’s wrist, curling his fingers into a careful support as he draws the other’s hand away from the wall and in towards himself so he can press his mouth to the inside dip of a palm gone slack with surprise. Izaya’s fingertips bump Shizuo’s cheek, Shizuo’s lips fit against the heat of Izaya’s hand, and Izaya makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, all the tension draining out of his body at the contact of Shizuo’s lips at his skin.

“Not here,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s hand, like he’s whispering the words to the delicate framework of the other’s fingers more than for his hearing, like Izaya’s hand will catch the sound of his voice to trap it just between them, just for their ears, something private and tender and just between the two of them. When he lifts his head Izaya is staring at him, his lips parted and eyes wide and endless; the dark shadows of heat are still behind his lashes, still hazing the crimson of his eyes to something heavier and hotter, but they’ve gone softer, now, the brittle edge of desperation has startled away to leave just heat in its wake. Shizuo wants to kiss him, wants to ease the barrier of clothing off Izaya’s skin and press his mouth against the curves and edges laid bare for his appreciation, wants to watch that heat spread into a flush over Izaya’s cheeks and melt to softness at his mouth and resonate into a moan in his throat, into pleasure shaped around the vowels of Shizuo’s name; but he wants it alone, himself, without the violent demands of adrenaline to pull him from his body and strip him of his patience and care, without the possibility of inconvenient interruption to distract his attention from where it should be, from the person it should be on. “Let’s go home.”

The words taste like a promise on his tongue.


	56. Close

They end up on the floor of Izaya’s apartment.

Shizuo had less patience than he thought he did. Outside it seemed a simple matter of will to hold himself to composure, to get them over the distance between the assigned meeting place and Izaya’s front door; for the first few blocks of the walk he’s even entertaining ideas of washing the dark-clotted blood from Izaya’s fingers first, maybe of pressing ice against the bruise rising against the other’s jaw, and then making their way to the bedroom, where Shizuo can strip layers of dark clothes off pale skin and indulge himself in slow, wandering kisses all across Izaya’s body until he can’t make himself wait any longer. But his patience starts to give way before they’re even halfway back, and Izaya has his jaw set into determination that Shizuo isn’t completely sure he wants to resist, and by the time they’re inside the entrance to the apartment building Shizuo can feel the strain of want pressing against every breath he takes, can feel every inch of distance between himself and Izaya like a physical burden. Izaya’s hand has been tightening on his the whole of the walk back, his fingers digging in until they’re verging upon pain, if Shizuo was in a state to notice anything but the heat pounding to need inside his chest, and when Izaya draws them into a pause in front of his door so he can handle the keys Shizuo can hear panting effort in both their inhales that has nothing to do with the minor physical exertion. Shizuo is leaning in closer while Izaya turns the key, reaching to push at the door while he breathes in against the soft dark of the other’s hair, and then Izaya turns the handle and the door comes open and they’re both toppling inside, hands catching at each other as fast as they move to trip over the edge of the entryway and land across the floor. The door swings shut on its own, the lock catching as fast as Shizuo’s knees hit the floor, and Izaya’s flat underneath him and looking up with his eyes blown nearly to black with anticipation and Shizuo knows with all the certainty in him that they’re not moving from this point again until they’ve found satisfaction in and against each other.

“Fuck,” he says, his coherency fracturing and dissolving to the way Izaya is looking up at him, to the damp at Izaya’s lips and the shift of his throat on his breathing. “Izaya, you.”

“Are you done waiting?” Izaya blurts. The words should sound impatient but they don’t; they come out strained, expectant, so tight with hope that they’re more rhetorical than sincere. “Is your sense of decency satisfied?” His gaze flicks to the door, his head tilts in a gesture towards the weight of it that Shizuo doesn’t turn to follow; his breathing is coming so fast his words come out panting on the effort. “There’s a shut door and everything. We could lock it, even, if you wanted.”

Shizuo shakes his head. “I don’t care” and he’s leaning in like he’s drawn by a magnet, his whole body insisting on impossible closeness against Izaya under him. Izaya whines when Shizuo kisses him, his throat opening up on a tremor of sound that Shizuo can catch and taste like the shine of copper on his tongue, and he’s still trembling when Shizuo draws back, his lashes heavy over his eyes as Shizuo blinks hard to see the way heat sits across the familiar lines of Izaya’s face. “This is fine.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Izaya groans, and he’s shifting like Shizuo’s words were permission, sliding his knee sideways and open to fit his legs around Shizuo’s instead of under them. It’s an echo of their position in the alley, and the heat that rushes through Shizuo is the same burn of instinctive understanding; except they’re in Izaya’s apartment now, there’s a door to keep out the world and nothing around them but the familiarity of home, and there’s nothing at all stopping Shizuo from capitulating to the ache of desire shaking itself through all his veins. He’s moving before he thinks, his hand closing to brace Izaya still at the floor as his hips come forward and down to grind against the open angle of the other’s thighs, and Izaya’s lashes flutter, his expression giving way in time with his voice breaking into a moan as his body curves up as if to meet the resistance of Shizuo’s. Shizuo’s thoughts are going hazy, his focus fracturing away, and some part of him is purring about immediate gratification, about bringing Izaya shuddering into pleasure beneath him before working through the complexities of anything else; but then his imagination offers the alternative, suggests the possibility of _feeling_ Izaya coming as much as seeing it, and Shizuo retrieves some measure of self-restraint he didn’t know he was master of to come back from that first edge of desperate, impatient want.

 _We’re going to do this_ , his thoughts insist. _Right here, right now, you’re going to open him up and then--_ and Shizuo’s imagination skids out on practicality, his attention pulling back into focus on the necessary preparation demanded by reality instead of the hazy convenience of fantasy. He draws back from the flush of Izaya’s skin, blinking fast as if that will help steady his thoughts, and when he takes a breath it’s with all the weight of intention behind it.

“We need--” and his voice gives way, inexperience and embarrassment winning out over his best attempt at practical considerations. He can feel his cheeks go hot, can feel his chest go tight on self-consciousness. He clears his throat and makes another attempt at speech. “Don’t we?”

Izaya’s mouth twitches, the corner of his lips pulling up into a flicker of amusement that touches his eyes with some hint of their usual color. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is taut, too, there’s the strain of laughter in his throat as clearly as it is in his eyes. “We do, in fact, need lube for this.” His lashes dip, his smile pulls wider, and Shizuo would be burning with embarrassment were it not for the fact that Izaya’s teasing usually indicates the presence of some kind of plan on the other’s part.

This is, thankfully, no exception. “Luckily for us both I have the foresight you lack,” Izaya tells him, and angles his head to cast his gaze towards the table next to the door. “In the drawer.”

“Why do you have it _here_?” but Shizuo isn’t waiting for an answer; he doesn’t really care, not when the result is so perfectly convenient for him at the moment. He pushes up onto his knees, leaving Izaya sprawled on the floor under him and reaching up to tug at the front of his vest while Shizuo reaches for the drawer thus indicated.

“I’m always prepared.” Izaya sits up, reaches out; his fingers catch at Shizuo’s collar, his thumb weights against the catch of the other’s tie. Shizuo can feel the tension slip free, can hear the fabric rustle as it falls to the floor. “People are easy to predict.” Shizuo’s fingers close on the smooth weight of a bottle in the otherwise empty drawer and Izaya’s touch drags up over his collar, the other’s fingers slipping down inside the crisp edges of the fabric to press over Shizuo’s skin as Izaya unfastens the topmost button of his shirt.

Shizuo smiles, warmth irrepressible in him even if he cared to try. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, meaning it in the best of ways. He knocks the drawer half-shut with a careless hand, turning back to set the bottle aside and consider Izaya again; but the other appears wholly absorbed in the path he’s making down the half-opened front of Shizuo’s shirt, and it doesn’t look like any helpful clarification will be coming from him for the embarrassed self-consciousness Shizuo can feel drawing tense in his chest again. Shizuo takes a breath, bracing his shoulders as if that will do anything to ease his stress; and then he gives the attempt up completely, and blurts “What about, uh. Protection?”

Izaya lifts his gaze from Shizuo’s shirt, his expression so utterly blank it conveys infinitely more disdain than a more effusive reaction would. “I’m exactly as likely to get pregnant as _you_ are, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo’s face goes crimson, the whole of his cheeks burning with embarrassment as much from the need for clarification as at the flat condescension in Izaya’s tone, as if Shizuo doesn’t understand the basic principles of biology. “That’s not what I mean,” he starts, because he might not have any hands-on experience but he knows there are things to worry about beyond the basic physical necessities, and however painfully hot self-consciousness is in him he can’t afford to mess this up.

Izaya’s mouth tenses, his jaw sets into a fixed line of tension. At Shizuo’s shirt his hands tighten, his fingers drawing to fists against the fabric. “Well then,” he says, his voice frigid and his shoulders tense. He sounds nearly calm but if there is any calm in his expression it’s what comes before a storm, it’s the strained anticipation just before a lightning strike, and Shizuo can feel the whole of his body shiver with a premonition of danger. “Who have you been fucking?”

Shizuo’s mouth falls open. For a moment he can’t even find the words for rejection of the absolute absurdity of the idea that he would have so much as kissed anyone but exactly the person in front of him, as if he has ever in all his life wanted to be anywhere but as close to Izaya as he can be. “ _What_?” he manages, finally, shock taking over his voice to offer a reply while his thoughts are still white and blank with the shock of Izaya’s question. “ _No one_.” Izaya’s still staring at him unblinkingly, his eyes as dark with irritation as with heat, but there’s the tiniest shift in his shoulders as some of the tension in him gives way at Shizuo’s response. “What the _hell_ Izaya, why would you--”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” Izaya cuts him off. He doesn’t look away from Shizuo’s gaze; there’s a shift at his mouth, the movement of a swallow in his throat. “If _you_ haven’t slept with anyone.”

 _Oh_. Shizuo’s heart skips, his blood goes hot in his veins; but he has to ask, he has to be sure before he lets himself relax into the implication of Izaya’s statement. “So you,” he starts, and then has to pause to find his voice again from around the rising pressure of possessive happiness against his chest. “You haven’t either?”

“No,” Izaya says, direct and undisguised, and Shizuo can’t find air for his lungs from the glow of warmth in him, from the bright certainty that _he’s yours, you’ll be his first, you’re the only one who--_ “I’m as pure and virginal as you could wish, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo snorts, amusement so warm on spreading delight that he doesn’t even try to hold it back. “You’ve never been pure a day in your life.”

“Mm.” Izaya’s mouth is curving, tugging at the corner into the threat of a smile; the dark in his eyes is nothing but heat, now. “Well. Virginal, then.” His gaze drops to the hold he has on Shizuo’s shirt, his hands ease from their brief tension. “You don’t need to worry about a condom, Shizuo.”

Shizuo lets a breath go along with the last of his tension. “Okay,” he says, but that’s not enough, his whole body is aching with gratitude for Izaya’s smile, for Izaya’s touch, for the certainty that Izaya is his, has been, will be, _is_ , right now, as he has never been for anyone else. Shizuo ducks his head in towards Izaya’s shoulder, the burn at his cheeks demanding cover and the ache in his chest demanding closeness, and presses his face in against the soft of Izaya’s shirt as he breathes in licorice to fill all the inside of his chest. “I’m glad.”

“I don’t know how you thought anything else.” Izaya’s fingers ease from the front of Shizuo’s undone shirt and come up to push the sleeves off the other’s shoulders. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone until a few days ago.” Shizuo shrugs free of his shirt, lets Izaya push the cloth down and off his arms, and then his hands are free and he can reach out to fit his fingers against the curve of the other’s waist instead. “Did you think I was paying for information with my body?”

“No.” Izaya shifts as he lets Shizuo’s shirt drop to the floor, moving his arms to work them free of his coat, and Shizuo shudders an exhale and catches his fingers under Izaya’s shirt, reaching for the warmth that always comes with fitting the pressure of his hand to the heat of Izaya’s body. “But you made it sound like you knew what you were doing.”

“Yes,” Izaya drawls, his fingers coming up to drag through Shizuo’s hair, to flex against the back of the other’s head like he’s trying to pull him in closer. “There’s this amazing invention called _porn_ , Shizuo, you can learn all kinds of things without personal experience.” He’s smiling, nearly laughing, Shizuo can hear the thrum of it on Izaya’s voice without seeing his face, and when he shifts it’s to lean backwards without easing his hold on Shizuo’s hair to urge the other down with him as he moves to lie across the floor.

“You can touch yourself too.” Izaya is looking up at Shizuo, watching the other’s face with his mouth curving onto the suggestion of a smile as he reaches for the front of his own jeans without looking. “You must have been really suffering all this time if you haven’t even been jerking off.”

“I _have_ been,” Shizuo blurts, the rejection of this absurd premise so instantaneous he doesn’t even have time to think himself into embarrassment about the weight of that admission on his tongue. It doesn’t feel like a huge confession -- it’s not like it’s the first time he’s admitted exactly this to Izaya -- but Izaya’s lashes flutter, his breathing gusts out of him in an exhale so hard it’s almost a groan, and for a sudden, brief moment Shizuo’s imagination flickers to heat, suggests Izaya lying across his bed all pale skin and flushed cheeks, dark lashes settled over shadowed eyes and those fingers working over himself, his throat tensing over the shape of a gasp, a moan, of Shizuo’s name breaking apart to heat in his throat. His attention drops down, involuntarily catching at the strain of tension underneath Izaya’s stilled hands at his jeans, and when he speaks it’s without thinking at all, without giving embarrassment time to gain traction on his thoughts. “Have _you_?”

“No,” Izaya says. Shizuo looks back up to his face, surprise knocking his brief fantasy free; and then he sees the flat look Izaya is giving him and the tension of repressed amusement at the corner of his mouth. “No, Shizuo, I’ve spent my entire teenage life without ever touching myself, the truth comes out at last. Now you know why I’m so desperate.”

“You’re joking.”

Izaya huffs and rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , I am joking. Would you like me to spell out the details of my fantasies for you instead?” and Shizuo can feel a wave of heat hit him at the very idea, even framed as the mocking taunt it is under the circumstances. Izaya’s voice wrapping around explicit details of his own imagination, unveiling the shape of his unspoken desires, of the routes his imagination follows when left unrestrained; Shizuo thinks that would be worth a fantasy of his own indulgence all by itself. Izaya shifts against the floor, his knee angling wider under Shizuo; his lashes are dipping over his eyes again, his throat is working over heat, and when he speaks again his voice is slipping down into shadow, purring out of the taut strain of mockery and into the resonance of seduction. “I could give you ideas for what you could do to me right now.”

Shizuo’s chest tightens, his breathing catches; but “No,” is what he says, and then he’s reaching for Izaya’s jeans, pressing his fingers close against the other’s against the fastenings of the denim. “Later.”

“Okay,” Izaya says. “I’ll leave it to you this time” and he is, he’s drawing his hand back to let it fall slack to the floor as Shizuo closes his fingers against the pull of Izaya’s zipper. It’s an easy process, undoing a zipper and then reaching to slide his fingers inside the give of fabric to pull across bare skin; but Shizuo’s heart is pounding in his chest, and his hands are steady but his breathing is shaky, he’s all but gasping for air as Izaya arches off the floor to grant him the leeway to draw the other’s clothes off his legs. Shizuo’s fingers drag over skin, his touch dragging over the heat of Izaya’s hips; and then he’s pulling, and Izaya’s clothes are sliding and there’s just Izaya himself, flushed skin laid bare for Shizuo’s view. Shizuo’s focus fractures, scattering apart like leaves in a high wind at this immediacy of what he’s only ever fantasized about before, at Izaya lying in front of him half-dressed and panting and hard, his cock flushed and curving up towards the rumpled edge of his shirt and his stomach trembling with tension and beautiful, he’s so beautiful, all Shizuo’s imagination could never match how striking Izaya looks like this. Shizuo’s dropping his hold at the other’s clothes, his attention to his previous pursuit entirely abandoned to the glow of appreciation so hot in his chest, because he has to reach out instead, has to press his fingers to Izaya’s hip and--and Izaya gasps, straining on a sudden inhale as his hips buck up in a reflexive, half-formed attempt to press closer, and Shizuo can’t find air for his lungs and is sure he doesn’t need it.

“Izaya,” he says, and it’s a prayer, almost, it’s appreciation and adoration and all the starstruck breathlessness of facing absolute perfection. Shizuo’s chest is aching, his fingers are tightening against Izaya’s hip, and he wants to lean closer, wants to press his lips to Izaya’s stomach, wants to kiss at the sharp curve of the other’s hip and slide his mouth sideways so he can part his lips and press his tongue against--

“Are you going to just stare?” Izaya asks, his voice sharp and clear against the haze of distraction that has seized Shizuo’s thoughts. “Or do you just not know what to do?”

“What?” Shizuo lifts his head, his focus still dazed out of his control, and Izaya is watching him, his cheeks flushed to pink and his lips parted on the pace of his breathing. He looks warm, looks hot, looks breathless and strained and desperate, and Shizuo wants everything of him all at once, the give of his mouth and the tremor along his thighs and the arch of pleasure that goes through him every time Shizuo’s fingers trail over his skin. There’s an ache in Shizuo’s chest, pressure weighting against his heart until it’s hard to breathe, until it’s hard to think; but Izaya is watching him with the tension of want shimmering behind his eyes, and Shizuo would do anything to satisfy that.

“Fuck.” He shakes his head, pushes aside half-formed fantasies and overheated daydreams at once, and then he looks down to dedicate his attention to getting Izaya’s clothes the rest of the way off him. There are some complexities, the struggle of working the other’s shoes off and then pulling at the tangle Shizuo has made of Izaya’s jeans; but then the clothes come free, and Izaya’s letting his legs fall open like an invitation, and Shizuo can’t resist the temptation of the offer. He’s still wearing too much himself, and Izaya’s shirt is caught up around the curve of his waist instead of stripped off him properly; but Izaya’s reaching out for him, his outstretched arms making a path for Shizuo to follow, and Shizuo is leaning forward in helpless obedience, bracing himself with a hand against the floor under them as Izaya’s hands wind into his hair, as Izaya turns his face up for the press of Shizuo’s mouth against his. He’s hot against Shizuo’s lips, he tastes like bitter and rich and sweet all together, and Shizuo can’t help the way his body cants forward, can’t hold back the reflexive arc of motion his hips take to grind against Izaya under him. He can feel Izaya pressing hard against his stomach, can catch the thrum of the other’s groan of response against his tongue, and the heat that hits him is like a physical force, jolting through the whole of his body like it’s trying to unmake him, as if to pull him apart until he’s nothing but heat and want, until he’s nothing but friction to melt against every inch of Izaya’s body.

“Oh,” Shizuo says, and “fuck” and he’s moving again, he can’t stop himself, his body is seeking out a rhythm even though the action is futile with his clothes still in the way. Izaya’s lashes are weighting over his eyes, his legs are tensing around Shizuo’s hips, and Shizuo feels dizzy with want, can barely think through the necessary steps they need to fumble through before he can press himself forward and into the heat of Izaya shuddering under him. “Izaya, _god_ , I want you so much.”

“I know,” Izaya says, his voice straining so taut in his throat the _me too_ is as clear as if he had shouted it. His fingers slide free of Shizuo’s hair, his touch catches hard at Shizuo’s hand and pulls, and while Shizuo is shifting his weight so he can lift his palm from the floor Izaya is reaching out for the bottle Shizuo dropped next to them earlier. “Here.” Izaya’s hold turns Shizuo’s hand up, makes a cup of the curve of his palm, and then he’s turning the bottle over to spill cool across the other’s skin, liquid slipping across Shizuo’s hand and dripping past his fingers to splash against Izaya’s shirt. Izaya pulls the bottle away, pressing the cap shut with his thumb before dropping it back to the floor, and then he’s reaching to brace a hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and shifting to angle his knees wider against the floor. “Do it.”

“Shit,” Shizuo breathes. His fingers are cool with the wet, his skin shining in the light overhead; his attention catches against the slick at his fingers, trailing over the familiar shape of his hand made novel with the weight of the liquid, with the thought of sliding his touch between Izaya’s legs, of drawing his fingers over the other’s skin, of pushing to fit his fingers inside the pressure of the other’s body. Izaya moves again, his legs spreading wider still, and when Shizuo looks down he can see the strain against the inside line of the other’s thighs, can see the unmarked pale of Izaya’s skin like it’s waiting for his touch, like it’s ready to bruise at a too-careless motion. His chest tenses, his breathing catches. “I’m going to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Izaya sounds certain, sounds steady even with his legs trembling from the open angle he has them spread to. He touches his fingers to his stomach, trails idle friction across the skin as his shirt hitches up higher by a half-inch. “I’ve been practicing, Shizuo, I can take it.”

Shizuo’s groan goes sideways in his throat, turning over onto almost laughter as his body flushes tense at the image of Izaya spilling liquid over his own fingers, of Izaya working his touch inside himself while thinking of Shizuo over him, of Shizuo inside him. “Stop saying that, it’s distracting.”

“Stop stalling,” Izaya shoots back, his voice straining on the edge of frustrated heat. “Just _touch_ me, Shizu--” and Shizuo does, immediately, reaching out in such instant obedience to Izaya’s demand that the drag of his fingers over the other’s skin breaks the sound of his name off into a sudden, startled hiss of an inhale. Izaya’s legs flex, his whole body tenses for a moment of anticipation, but Shizuo doesn’t hesitate, can’t hesitate now that he’s moving, because his hand is against Izaya and he’s pushing against soft skin and--and he’s sliding inside, Izaya is giving way and Shizuo’s touch is thrusting into him and Shizuo’s struggling for air, his lungs are straining his inhale into a startled gasp because Izaya is warm, he’s _hot_ , he’s soft and tight and Shizuo’s never felt anything so warm before in all his life.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, his voice turning over inside his chest as his hand stalls, as his breathing catches against the sudden weight of sensation in his veins. Izaya’s hand comes out, his fingers make a fist at the front of Shizuo’s shirt, but Shizuo can’t look up, can’t look away from the tremor in Izaya’s thighs and the flush across pale skin and the press of his touch inside Izaya so close he can feel the shudder of reaction tightening the other’s body around him. “Izaya, _fuck_.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya groans, lower and more strained than Shizuo has ever before heard his voice, and he’s reaching up with his other hand too, his hands tightening at Shizuo’s shirt to hold the other steady. “ _Shizuo_.” Shizuo takes a breath, and lifts his head; and Izaya is staring at him, his eyes wide and blown all the way to black, his lips parted on the rush of breathing he’s struggling through. His cheeks are flushed dark, as if to make up for the absence of color in his heat-dark eyes, his throat working over each inhale; and his hands at Shizuo’s shirt are twisting, his hold going desperate as his arms strain to urge the other closer. Shizuo leans in, helpless to this unvoiced command as much as he would be to a stated one, and under him Izaya’s throat works, his mouth closes on the effort of a swallow like he’s bracing himself.

“Keep going,” he says, and the words are harsh but his volume is almost a whisper, his voice is trembling in the back of his throat in time with the dip of his lashes. He looks pleading, sounds desperate, and Shizuo groans surrender and obeys, pushing in against the impossible soft heat of Izaya’s body. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his focus giving way as his mouth comes open on a silent jolt of response, and Shizuo is staring, his attention skipping across all the details of Izaya’s face as if he can press them into his mind, as if he can catch and hold them perfectly clear in his memory as they are right now.

“There,” Izaya gasps. “Keep going.”

Shizuo does. His arm is shaking, he imagines he can feel the tremor of near-panic and all-want thrumming into the spaces between his bones and blood, like it’s settling in to make itself a part of him, but Izaya is arching under him and clinging to his shoulder and he can’t help but obey, drawing his hand back and sliding his touch in deeper than before, feeling Izaya open against the force of his touch pressing as gently as he knows how. Izaya’s gasping for air, his arms straining on the force he’s clutching at Shizuo’s shoulder, and then Shizuo tenses his finger, pressing as far into Izaya’s body as he can reach, and Izaya gasps, his head tipping back in involuntary reaction as his legs, fingers, shoulders tense in a sudden rush of reaction.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he chokes out, and Shizuo can feel the strain of the other’s reaction clench around his touch, can feel the ripple of Izaya’s response without having to read it off his expression, without having to piece it together from the gaps between his words. He’s moving before Izaya has caught a breath to speak, drawing his hand back to push forward again while Izaya is still starting in on “Shizuo--” like the beginning of some breathless order. The motion is too fast, Shizuo flinches at how fast his push thrusts into Izaya’s body; but Izaya’s words flicker into a groan instead, his fingers clenching at Shizuo’s shoulders as his cock twitches hard towards his stomach, and Shizuo can feel his heart pounding with all the uncanny strength in his body as he watches Izaya shudder with sensation around his touch. “ _Fuck_.”

Shizuo takes a breath, feels determination settling around his shoulders as if it’s spilling into him from the weight of Izaya’s touch. “Izaya,” he says, breathing the other’s name like a prayer, like it can carry all the heat of years of waiting, of wondering, of uncertainty made certain, made real in the press of Izaya tight around his touch and the pant of the other’s breathing loud in the apartment. He draws his touch back, still watching Izaya’s features instead of the movement of his hand, but there’s not so much as a flicker of hesitation in the other’s expression, nothing of panic in the way his lashes flutter over that heat-hazed gaze up at the ceiling. Shizuo presses a second finger alongside the second, fits the texture of his skin close against Izaya’s, and Izaya makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, a whimper of heat that aches all through Shizuo with the force of a half-heard plea. He responds to that more than to rationality, patience giving way to the desire to gratify anything Izaya wants, anything Izaya asks for, and he’s pushing inside, his fingers stretching Izaya open around his touch while the other’s mouth comes open on the force of his exhale and Izaya’s throat opens up on the sound of a groan. Shizuo’s sliding farther forward, his fingers pressing deeper in one smooth stroke, and he probably should slow down but Izaya’s knees are tipping wider, Izaya’s legs are spreading open, and he’s trembling around Shizuo’s fingers, his whole body tensing into waves of shivering reaction that Shizuo can feel resonate all through him to tense in his shoulder and urge his touch deeper, harder, whatever it takes to pull that involuntary heat out of Izaya’s veins and into knocked-open pleasure across his face. Shizuo can’t catch his breath, can’t find space for this experience in the span of his everyday reality; this is more, brighter and sharper and softer all at once, as if having Izaya underneath him has granted him an extra sense and all he can manage to do with it is gasp breathless appreciation.

“You’re so hot,” Shizuo says, the words inane but the closest coherency he find to capture _you feel like fire, you look like art, I don’t know how to exist for how much I love you_. Izaya takes a breath, and lifts his head to blink himself into focus on Shizuo’s face; even then his eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted like he can’t recall how to breathe, his cheeks flushed into color as if with the press of too-much winter sunlight against pale skin. He looks dizzy, looks unfocused; Shizuo can see Izaya’s gaze flicker with every forward thrust he takes with his fingers, can watch the motion of his hand printed into a shiver of distraction over the other’s face as if Izaya is responding directly to the weight of his touch. It makes his chest ache, makes his blood burn until he wants to be nearer, wants to have more, wants to press Izaya impossibly close against him so he can feel--

“Shizuo,” Izaya manages, shaping the word past the dip of heavy lashes and the strain of effort Shizuo can see in his throat. His fingers at the other’s shoulder tighten hard, pinning the fabric between Shizuo’s skin and his own like he’s trying to will it out of existence. “I can take it.”

“I’ll hurt you” Shizuo protests, but his voice is weak even in his own ears and he’s still pushing into Izaya, still working his touch deeper to draw another shudder of reaction from the other, to pull the sound of another moan from Izaya’s throat. Izaya tenses around him, clenching tight against Shizuo’s fingers, and Shizuo shakes his head in reflexive rejection of the idea of more. “You’re so tight, I can’t--”

“You can” and Izaya’s hooking his leg around Shizuo’s hip and pulling, the force coming so quick Shizuo doesn’t have time to brace himself against it. His weight tips forward, the inertia of his action jolting his fingers farther into Izaya, and Izaya hisses a breathless inhale while Shizuo’s whole body flashes hot with desire, with imagination, with the too-clear image of drawing his touch free and fitting the span of his hips against Izaya in place of his fingers. He wants it, he _needs_ it, his whole body is aching with desire for the friction and the heat and the softness so tight around his fingers, all his instincts are telling him to fumble open his slacks and rock himself forward to bring them as close together as they can be. But Izaya’s still tight against him, his body soft and painfully fragile even against Shizuo’s slick fingertips, and Shizuo’s heart constricts at the very idea of that heat behind Izaya’s eyes cracking open on pain, at the idea of jarring hurt into Izaya’s body instead of heat.

“You can,” Izaya says again. He lets Shizuo’s shoulder go, his touch dropping to fit against the other’s slacks instead; the weight of his hand is almost gentle, this time, the press of his fingers delicate as he catches at the button and trails over the zipper. Shizuo can hear Izaya’s breath catch, can hear strain fitting under the other’s voice when he speaks. “Come on, Shizuo, don’t you want me?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo breathes. He can feel his resistance giving way, can feel all the straining tension holding him back fading and failing under the gentle drag of Izaya’s fingertips. He takes a breath, lets honesty fall from his lips at the exhale. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” Izaya says, a little too fast, a little too tense with anticipation. Shizuo can hear the strain of excitement on the other’s words; he doesn’t look up to see the smile he knows is starting at Izaya’s mouth. “Trust me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo’s laugh is faint, more a gust of air past his lips than anything with the form of audible amusement, but it takes the last of his restraint with it, leaves his body free to thrum itself into the heat of anticipation as he takes a breath and slides his fingers back. “That’s not reassuring,” he protests, looking down as he rocks over his heels and reaches for his pants. “I always get in trouble when I listen to you.” Izaya draws his hand back, closes his fingers painfully tight at Shizuo’s hip instead, and Shizuo’s slacks come open at a touch, as if his clothes are as anxious as he is to part over the heat of his skin. He looks up, his mouth tugging into a smile in spite of his best attempt as he meets the dark of Izaya’s gaze on him and the excitement easing the other’s lips into a breathless part. “I should have learned my lesson years ago.”

“Good thing you’re too stupid for that,” Izaya deadpans, and Shizuo has to laugh as he catches at the top edge of his clothes to push slacks and boxers alike off his hips. He considers being embarrassed, feels the first strain of self-consciousness starting at the very back of his thoughts; but Izaya’s gaze is dropping down, and Izaya’s mouth is coming open, and Izaya’s reaching out to curl his fingers around Shizuo’s length and even the possibility of embarrassment gives way at once to the drag of Izaya’s touch. Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him at once, his body curving in towards Izaya under him like he’s being drawn in closer by the other’s motion, and he’s reaching for himself too, closing slick fingers in the wake of Izaya’s touch as his lips brush just above the fabric over the thud of Izaya’s heartbeat in his chest.

“‘Good,’” Shizuo manages, fumbling for words while his palm slides slick over himself. “For which one of us?”

“Both of us,” Izaya says. His fingers are drawing down alongside Shizuo’s, his touch going secondhand slick from the lube; he has his other arm angled around Shizuo’s shoulders, now, has his fingers tangled into a fist on the strands. “We’re better together, Shizuo.”

Shizuo’s huff of an exhale is almost a laugh, his mouth is catching on the tension of a smile. “You are such a liar,” he says, the words turning over into affection in the back of his throat, and then he’s giving over speaking for the focus he needs to look down at the drag of their tangled fingers. Izaya’s hand flexes, his touch drawing a last surge of heat up Shizuo’s spine and a shudder through his body, and then his second hand is joining the first to cling to Shizuo’s hair like a handhold against some oncoming force. The idea steals Shizuo’s breath, flushes a surge of heat through his cock, and underneath him Izaya arches, his body curving to line up with Shizuo’s as if it was meant to be there, as if it’s instinct guiding him into place. Shizuo lets his weight tip down, angles himself into place; and then he has to look up, has to bring his attention back so he can see the way Izaya is staring at him, with his lashes framing wide eyes and the strain of anticipation trembling in the line of his arms and the set of his jaw.

Shizuo takes a breath. “Izaya,” he says, and it’s not quite a question and it’s not quite a plea; but Izaya’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Izaya answers anyway: “Do it, Shizuo” with the same resonant certainty he had at Christmas, and Shizuo is moving at once, his body responding to the command of Izaya’s words before his mind has time to stall him. His hips come forward, he presses hard against the other; and Izaya eases for him, and Shizuo is rocking forward, and it’s happening, Izaya’s body is giving way to the slide of his cock and Shizuo can feel every inch of movement, heat and friction and the strain of Izaya tensing around him, and instinct seizes control of his body to rock him forward hard, to thrust deeper, farther, to push as deep as he can get in one fluid motion.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Izaya’s gasping, and “ _Shizuo_ ”; but it’s not pain in his voice, it’s heat, there’s a low resonance dragging in his throat that Shizuo’s overheated thoughts catch and read as _more_. Izaya’s leg is tight around his hip, he’s arching up to meet Shizuo’s forward movement, and Shizuo is moving, is rocking himself back and dropping forward to be closer, nearer, to fill his lungs with the smell of Izaya’s skin while he fills Izaya’s body with the heat of his cock. His fingers catch at dark hair, his palm presses against Izaya’s head, and when he turns his head his mouth is against the other’s throat, his lips are catching against the tremor of Izaya’s pulse against his neck. Izaya’s shaking, Shizuo can feel his whole body quivering as Shizuo draws back for another thrust; but Shizuo’s hand is in his hair, Shizuo’s grip is pinning him to stillness against the floor, and then he takes a breath and Izaya fills his mouth, his nose, his whole existence, and Shizuo can feel everything in him giving way like a dam breaking. He makes some sound, reflex seizing his chest to give voice to the heat surging up the whole length of his spine; and his hips snap forward, and his breath rushes out of him as he spills over the edge into orgasm. His vision goes white, the rhythm of his movement collapses, and for the span of endless heartbeats there’s just relief, Izaya so close against and under him that even the impossible aching want in Shizuo’s chest loosens, and eases, and melts into the warmth of languid satisfaction all through his body.

Izaya gives him just long enough for his vision to clear before he speaks.

“My god,” he says, his voice trembling in his throat but still, somehow, achieving a condescending drawl. “You really _are_ a virgin, aren’t you?”

Shizuo can feel his entire face go crimson against Izaya’s shoulder. “Oh my god,” he gasps. “Shut _up_.”

“I thought it would be a challenge to take you,” Izaya continues as if Shizuo hadn’t spoken at all. Shizuo lets his fingers slide free of Izaya’s hair to brace a hand against the floor and push himself up to free the other from supporting his weight; Izaya is still flushed when he manages to get a good look at his face, his cheeks still stained with the high color of arousal, but his mouth is twitching on laughter, his lips curving around a grin he’s not making any attempt to restrain. “If I had known you would only take a few seconds I wouldn’t have been nearly so worried.”

“You are such a _dick_.” Shizuo slides back and out of the grip of Izaya’s body; it’s more than a little bit gratifying to see the way the other’s gaze flickers out of focus at the motion, the way his laughter cuts off into some unvoiced strain of response in his throat. “You came just from me pushing you against the couch last time.”

“You don’t have anything to complain about if I come first,” Izaya manages, regaining his briefly lost composure without any trace of embarrassment at Shizuo reminding him of their previous interlude. “ _You’re_ not being left unsatisfied.”

Shizuo raises his eyebrows. “Who said you were going to be unsatisfied?” He settles his weight over his knees, shifts his steadying hold at Izaya’s hip. “I’m still going to get you off, don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not the same.” Izaya’s mouth draws into a petulant frown, his lips works into the soft of a pout. “I want to come around your _cock_ , Shizuo.”

Shizuo chokes on an inhale, his attention scattering for a moment at the idea of Izaya shuddering under him, at the way Izaya would feel tensing through ripples of pleasure while Shizuo is still moving into him. If he hadn’t come literal seconds before, he thinks the idea would be enough to bring him back to arousal in the span of a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grates out. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

Izaya’s smile flickers like electricity hot and sparking against his mouth. “Can’t I?” he drawls, the words lilting into mockery over his tongue.

“No,” Shizuo tells him, and reaches out to curl his fingers around Izaya’s cock without any further warning. It’s worth it just for the way Izaya’s eyes go wide, for the way his head angles back on a sudden, broken-off groan, and Shizuo’s smiling as he strokes up over the other, satisfaction and appreciation spilling together to glow hot through his veins. “Shut up, Izaya.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya manages with gratifying incoherence. “You…” His legs flex, his knees angle wider; one hand drops to grab at Shizuo’s wrist where the other’s grip is bracing Izaya still against the slide of his hold. “No need to be rough, Shizu-chan.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, and he means it as a laugh but it comes out darker than that, lower, dropping octaves in response to the color spilling heat all across Izaya’s cheekbones and shuddering strain against the inside of his thighs. He lets the other’s hip go, shaking off Izaya’s hold without even thinking about it so he can reach down instead to slide his fingers between Izaya’s trembling legs. Izaya’s hot to the touch, still open and soft from the stretch of Shizuo’s cock inside him; Shizuo presses two fingers into him without resistance, thrusting in almost to their full length on his first attempt. Izaya’s eyes blow to dark, his mouth falls open as he arches up and off the floor, and Shizuo can feel the rush of power run through the whole of his body to see the way the drag of his hand chases Izaya’s breathing to a gasp, to watch the thrust of his fingers knock Izaya’s expression to unfocused heat. He doesn’t mean to be rough, doesn’t want to give too much; but Izaya’s moaning over every breath, his legs tipping wider in invitation, and Shizuo’s fingers are moving on their own to push deeper, to thrust harder, to find that angle that will scatter Izaya’s attention to helpless pleasure. “Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Apologies,” Izaya gasps, visibly struggling to bring himself to focus on Shizuo’s expression as the other’s fingers draw up over his length. “I always forget.”

“You don’t.” Shizuo presses his thumb up over Izaya’s cock, slides his fingers in as deep inside the other as he can go. Izaya’s wet to the touch, sticky against the very tips of Shizuo’s fingers, and Shizuo realizes what he’s feeling at the same time his whole body shivers into possessive satisfaction at the thought of his come inside Izaya, at the evidence of his pleasure caught against the heat of Izaya’s body. His breathing catches, his chest opens on a half-voiced groan, and when he speaks his voice is lower, darker, insistently dominant. “You know my name.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya gasps, like a surrender, and Shizuo’s pleasure-sated body aches with the gratification of it, with the relief of hearing his name coming undone in Izaya’s throat while the other arches under the force of his touch. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his lips part, and when he speaks it’s in a rush of desperation. “Give me another.”

“What?” Shizuo glances down, his attention pulled away from the strain across Izaya’s face to the give of his body, to the slick thrust of his fingers fitting against the heat of Izaya’s entrance. “I’m going to hurt you” but he’s moving anyway, sliding his touch back so he can angle a third finger alongside the first two. It looks impossible, looks like a strain even Izaya’s overheated demands can’t bear; but when Shizuo presses against the other Izaya’s breathing spills out of him into a moan, and Shizuo’s pushing in deeper as Izaya’s body gives way to his force, and Shizuo’s breathing is catching and he’s still pushing farther and Izaya’s back is curving, his legs are flexing, his cock is straining with heat under Shizuo’s hold and Shizuo has never before seen anything as erotic as the part of Orihara Izaya’s lips on the shape of an unvoiced moan. He’s going to hurt him, he’s sure, he’s terrified, he’s going to go too far and push for too much; but he’s still thrusting deeper, Izaya’s still thrumming into tension under him, and “God, _Izaya_ ” Shizuo breathes, his voice pressed to a whisper by the heat in his chest, and Izaya’s entire body convulses, all the strain in his shoulders and stomach and thighs giving way to a long shudder of heat as his cock jerks and pulses to heat over Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo’s throat tenses, his chest aching on appreciation so strong it verges into pain, and he doesn’t pull away, he keeps his grip sliding up over Izaya’s cock and his fingers pressing inside Izaya’s body and feels the way the other tightens around him, watches the individual shudders of pleasure run through the arc of Izaya’s spine and the angle of his shoulders to leave him trembling boneless and exhausted against the floor. Izaya’s hand catches at Shizuo’s wrist, his hold shaky and weak but more than enough to urge the careful slide of Shizuo’s touch to stillness, and for a moment they stay there unmoving, Shizuo tipped in over Izaya and Izaya staring blank unfocus at the ceiling past Shizuo’s shoulder while he gasps through shuddering inhales.

“God,” he says finally, his voice rough in the back of his throat. His leg flexes, his knee tipping out, and Shizuo looks down to ease his fingers back out of Izaya as carefully as he can. Izaya still hisses at the motion, his leg shifting back in as if to relieve the strain, but when Shizuo looks back up he’s still gazing at the ceiling, still looking completely stunned with heat. “I hurt.”

Shizuo flinches. “I told you,” he says. He eases his grip on the other’s length so he can draw sticky fingers away. “I tried to warn you.”

Izaya’s mouth shifts, catches on the edge of a smile that can’t gain traction against the languid blank of his expression. “I didn’t say I _minded_.” He draws his leg in against himself, angles his knee in towards Shizuo’s; Shizuo rocks back to let Izaya slide a leg between his own, and then he’s coming back in, helpless to the need to be closer to the flushed satisfaction all across Izaya’s skin, to look into the dark haze of the other’s eyes until he’s sure there’s no regret behind them. Izaya blinks up at him, his gaze drifting across Shizuo’s features like he’s mapping them under gentle fingertips, and then he lifts his hand, slow, to slide his fingers up into the other’s hair and drag his thumb over Shizuo’s forehead. There’s another flicker at his mouth, another ghost of a smile, but this one clings to the corner of his lips, draws them up to the soft of unstated happiness as Izaya’s gaze winds itself into Shizuo’s hair alongside his fingers.

“I _liked_ it,” he says, with careful force; and then, with his gaze dropping to meet Shizuo’s: “I like you.”

Shizuo’s breath catches, his chest straining on the sudden rush of warmth that surges through his veins, that presses against his ribcage like it’s trying to expand beyond the limits of his body, like it’s trying to push the boundaries of his self out to encompass the room, the city, the world, to wrap around Izaya gazing soft affection up at him until there’s no gaps between them at all, until Shizuo can feel the angle of Izaya’s mouth tugging at his own lips without any way to tell the one from the other.

“I’m glad,” he says, and he lifts his hand to touch his fingers against Izaya’s hair, to trail his touch through the strands with the appreciative care cultivated by years of patience. Izaya’s lashes dip, his breathing catches, and Shizuo is leaning in closer to him as if he can offer himself in place of air, as if to fill his own lungs with Izaya instead of the so much less satisfying weight of oxygen. “I like you too.”

Shizuo can feel the way Izaya’s body tenses under him at the weight of his words, can feel the other’s fingers tighten in his hair. Izaya’s cheeks color to heat, his blush so close Shizuo can feel it glowing against his own skin; but his mouth is melting into a smile, the curve of it spreading soft over his lips, and Shizuo can feel the press of affection in his chest break free into a spill of delighted laughter against Izaya’s cheek. Izaya’s fingers tighten at his hair, his grip tensing as he turns his head in to stifle Shizuo’s laughter with a kiss, and Shizuo shuts his eyes and lets Izaya’s lips draw him into silence.

Izaya’s hold goes gentle after a moment, but Shizuo doesn’t move away. Izaya’s never needed to force him closer in the first place.


	57. Taste

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Izaya says from the floor of the bathroom where he’s settled himself to lean against the wall at his back. “I’ll just wash it in the shower, you don’t need to make a big production out of it. I bet it won’t even scar.”

“I don’t care,” Shizuo tells him without turning around from the array of first aid materials he’s laid out across the bathroom counter. “We’re not doing anything else until I get your hand bandaged.”

“Suddenly you’re all concerned for my well-being?” Izaya sounds amused, almost delighted; when Shizuo looks back at him he’s smiling up at the other, the curve of his lips sparkling bright behind his eyes. “You didn’t seem to be all that worried fifteen minutes ago.”

Shizuo can feel his cheeks go hot. “All the more reason to do it now,” he says, grabbing antiseptic and a bandage from the counter before coming back to kneel against the tile in front of Izaya. The other has made minimal concessions to decency, which is to say he pulled his briefs back on while Shizuo was collecting their scattered clothes from the entryway; he’s covered, technically, but between the open angle he’s making of his bare knees and the heat-soft smile clinging to his lips Shizuo thinks he might actually look more seductive now than he would if he had stripped off his shirt instead to leave himself entirely bare for Shizuo’s gaze.

“I suppose so,” Izaya allows, lifting his hand to make an offering of the languid weight of his fingers for Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo catches his palm against Izaya’s and curls his fingers gently around the angle of the other’s wrist; Izaya’s touch skims the inside of his arm, his fingernails dragging ticklish friction in their wake. “I won’t complain about your priorities in any case.”

“Kind of you,” Shizuo says, glancing up to meet Izaya’s gaze for just a moment. The other is watching him, his focus completely given over to Shizuo rather than to the weight of his outstretched hand; his smile is soft, his eyes half-lidded with the same evidence of satisfaction clear across the angle of his shoulders and the drape of his fingers. Shizuo can feel the desire to kiss the other like a pressure against his chest, can feel the urge to lean in and pin Izaya back against the wall with the friction of his mouth like a magnetic force drawing him in for all that it’s only been a handful of minutes since they collected themselves from the entryway to stumble towards the bathroom instead. It takes a conscious effort of will for Shizuo to look away from the dark of Izaya’s lash-shadowed gaze and the curve of his lips on that smile, requires all the focus he can muster to duck his head and fix his attention to the cut drawing a clean line across all four of Izaya’s fingers.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it was,” he says as he spreads antiseptic across the torn skin. “The way it was bleeding I thought this would be a lot deeper.”

“I told you it was no big deal,” Izaya tells him, but there’s no judgment in his voice; he sounds warm, indulgent, as if he’s more flattered by Shizuo’s concern than irritated. “Don’t worry, my fingers will be pristine as ever in a few days, just like you like them.”

Shizuo glances up, just for a moment. Izaya’s still watching his face; his lips are tugging higher on one side, his smile drawing into a knowing smirk. Shizuo looks back down.

“Like _I_ like them?” he says, aiming the words at Izaya’s hand in his while he sets the antiseptic aside and reaches for the bandage to wrap around the other’s fingers instead.

“Mm.” Izaya’s voice is warm in the back of his throat, all but purring over his lips. “Did you think I didn’t notice?” He lifts his free hand, ghosting his touch just against Shizuo’s hair and over the back of the other’s neck, and Shizuo’s breathing catches, his whole body stalling under the shudder of involuntary reaction that hits him at the contact. “Give me some credit, I’m not completely blind.”

“My mistake,” Shizuo says. His head is tipping forward, his whole body giving way to the slide of Izaya’s fingers trailing across his skin. “After six years of waiting and _still_ being the one to confess I thought maybe I could slip something past you.”

Izaya’s touch stalls for a moment, his hand tensing for a heartbeat before he resumes trailing his fingertips against the ends of Shizuo’s hair, just along the collar of the other’s thin undershirt. “Maybe I just wanted you to confess first,” he says, his thumb sliding up against Shizuo’s scalp while his fingers spread wide and drag against the edge of the shirt. “You should have figured that out yourself, Shizu-chan, clearly _you’re_ the unobservant one here.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Clearly.” When he glances up through his hair Izaya’s cheeks are flushed with unusual color, his mouth set into a line like he’s trying to hold himself to composure through willpower alone. “It was my fault for waiting so long. Sorry.”

“Right,” Izaya says, tossing his head to shake his hair back from his face without meeting Shizuo’s gaze. “Apology accepted, I suppose.”

Shizuo smiles and looks back down to Izaya’s injured hand so he can wrap the bandage through one more pass and twist the end in under itself to hold it in place. It’s just as he’s closing his hand into a gentle weight around Izaya’s that the other takes a breath and speaks in a low tone like he’s afraid of being overheard. “Six years?”

Shizuo looks up. Izaya’s watching him now, his cheeks capitulating to the red of a blush and his lower lip caught in his teeth as he worries at it; but his eyes are focused, his gaze intent on Shizuo’s face.

Shizuo doesn’t look away. “Yeah.” He tightens his hold on Izaya’s hand, feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I was an idiot.”

Izaya’s lips curve into a sudden, startled smile. “As long as you know,” he says, but the force of the words is completely undone by the curve of his lips and the shimmer of barely-held-back laughter in his throat. His eyes are bright with amusement even before he turns his head up and tightens his fingers at the back of Shizuo’s neck to urge the other closer. “Come here.” Shizuo obeys, is moving even before Izaya gives voice to the words; it’s like giving in to magnetism, as if closing that gap between them is falling into the place he was always meant to be, as if he can only truly breathe if the air is shared out between his lips and Izaya’s. Izaya’s mouth is soft under his, his lips parting as fast as Shizuo’s make contact, and Shizuo lets his eyes shut, lets his attention drift into a haze of heat made languid and calm with their recent physical satisfaction. Izaya draws his hand free of Shizuo’s hold, reaches out to make a fist of the other’s undershirt to drag him closer, and Shizuo leans forward in immediate capitulation, tipping in until their bodies are flush against each other with only the wall at Izaya’s shoulders to keep them from toppling to horizontal. Even then Izaya seems more than willing to melt into boneless heat where he sits: his hold at Shizuo’s shirt is going loose, his fingers sliding up and under the fall of fabric to skim the other’s ribcage instead, to trail sensation out over bare skin under his touch, and when his fingernails catch and drag against Shizuo’s stomach Shizuo can’t help the way he shudders with the friction any more than he can resist the electric heat that prickles down the length of his spine.

“God,” he says, breathing the word against Izaya’s mouth like a promise, like the shape of a kiss given the form of language. “That feels.”

“Yeah?” Izaya says, his lips curving into the edge of a smile. His hand slides closer, his palm weighting flush to Shizuo’s skin. “Does it?”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and then Izaya’s fingers tense and slide, trailing down to press at the top edge of his rumpled slacks, and his breath catches in his chest as his shoulders flex with sudden adrenaline. “ _Oh_.”

“I’d ask if it’s too soon,” Izaya says, his hold at the back of Shizuo’s neck tightening as if to hold the other where he is, or maybe to brace him in place as Izaya’s fingers slide down with uncanny grace to work inside the waistband of Shizuo’s pants. “But I think I can find the answer for myself” as his fingertips skim over flushed skin, as the friction of his touch drags a gusting exhale free of Shizuo’s lungs. Shizuo can feel his cock swelling harder under Izaya’s fingers, can feel the heat in his body spiking in instant response to the other’s movement, and it really _should_ be too soon but Izaya’s palm is fitting against him, Izaya’s thumb is sliding down against the head of his cock, and rational considerations apparently have no weight at all compared to the persuasiveness of Izaya’s skin against Shizuo’s.

“Do you want to move?” Shizuo asks instead, drawing back just enough to blink his eyes into focus so he can see the shadows clinging to Izaya’s lashes and the heat weighting soft against his parted lips. “We could go to the bedroom, maybe.”

Izaya shakes his head, his hair swinging to shadow his eyes for a moment. “No.” His mouth catches and curves up at the very corner. “Later. After a shower.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale. “But this comes first?” he asks, but he’s laughing with it, amused all in himself by Izaya’s abundantly clear priorities. He reaches down for the front of his slacks, pushing the button open one-handed and drawing the zipper down to give Izaya more space, and Izaya accepts without hesitation, shifting his wrist down into a more comfortable angle as fast as Shizuo can get his clothes undone. His fingers curl in around Shizuo’s length, the pressure of his hand drags friction out into Shizuo’s veins, and Shizuo has to lift his hand to the wall over Izaya’s shoulder to hold himself steady against the heat that spikes sharp up his spine with the weight of Izaya’s touch on him.

“God,” he groans, his voice dropping low and wide-open as his knees brace wider, as his head drops forward. Izaya’s smiling, now, his lips curving soft on the shape of a smile Shizuo is pretty sure is unconscious; Shizuo draws his hand down to slide against the pale of Izaya’s throat, to trace out a path for his lips to follow as he ducks in closer to press his mouth against the salt-sweat clinging to the other’s skin. “Izaya.”

“Yes?” Izaya says, his voice skidding out over his attempt at an innocent tone and making it a laugh instead. He lets his bandaged hand fall from Shizuo’s shirt and reaches out for the other’s hip instead; his fingers catch under the fall of the other’s undershirt, his hold bracing close against bare skin and his thumb digging in as if to urge Shizuo to stillness. “Did you need something from me?”

 _Yes_ , Shizuo wants to say. _I need everything from you_. But there’s no tension in him, none of the desperate ache that has been such a constant in his day-to-day existence before today; his body is still heavy with satisfaction, his blood still saturated with languid heat even as his shoulders flex and his stomach tenses on the rising pull of desire, on the second round of pleasure so close on the first it feels almost like a continuation instead of a separate experience. Izaya’s skin is warm under his touch, his shirt pulling loose across his shoulder as Shizuo’s fingers draw along it; Shizuo presses his nose against the tangle of Izaya’s hair, breathes in deep just under the curve of the other’s ear, and when he speaks the words come easy, carrying the weight of honesty with them as Izaya’s touch draws the tension of pleasure to a knot low in his stomach.

“Just you,” he says, and his fingers curl around Izaya’s shoulder, his thumb slides in to fit at the dip of the other’s collarbone like it belongs there. “That’s all.”

Izaya’s laugh is warm against his ear. “Oh, only that?” He presses his fingers in hard against Shizuo’s skin; Shizuo can feel the ache of it unfold to heat up his spine, can feel the tension in his stomach twist over on itself and settle to tremors against his thighs. Izaya’s grip around him shifts, his wrist angling up; his thumb slips sideways to drag slick over the head of Shizuo’s cock. “How modest of you.”

Shizuo would protest this too: _it’s not, you’re everything, you’re_ perfect, except that he’s losing track of the rhythm of his breathing, losing his grasp on the pattern of his inhales as his chest tightens in reflexive response to the weight of Izaya’s hold on him. Izaya’s moving faster, Shizuo thinks distantly, or differently at least, enough that every stroke of his hand is sparking like fireworks in Shizuo’s blood; and Shizuo can feel himself falling into it, as if Izaya’s touch is collecting everything he is into the palm of the other’s hand and melting it down into shuddering heat. Shizuo’s hips are rocking forward, tiny involuntary motions to thrust against Izaya’s grip, and Izaya is breathing hard against Shizuo’s shoulder but Shizuo’s touch at his collarbone is gentle, his eyes are open and he’s watching his fingers tremble at Izaya’s skin with all the force of possible strength that he’s not bringing to bear on the other’s body. He wants to brace himself, wants to cling to Izaya like the other is the last fixed point in the world to hold Shizuo down; but Izaya’s holding him instead, Izaya’s fingers are pressing at his hip and hot around him, and then Izaya’s wrist flexes, and the weight of his fingers drags up and over sensitive skin, and all Shizuo’s awareness fractures and dissolves for a brief, blinding moment. His lips are warm with salt from Izaya’s skin, his lungs are full of the smell of licorice, and his fingers are at Izaya’s shoulder, his grip breathlessly gentle even as his voice cracks into a groan, even as his hips jerk forward to stall out against Izaya’s hold on him as he comes over those deliberate fingers and that angled wrist. Izaya huffs an exhale hard against the collar of Shizuo’s undershirt, his breathing spilling warm against the thin of the fabric, and for a moment they’re both still, Shizuo filling his lungs with the heat radiating off Izaya’s skin and Izaya’s sticky fingers still pressing close against Shizuo.

“God,” Shizuo says, finally, hearing his voice crack into odd uncanny depths he didn’t intend it to fall to. “Izaya, I. You.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. His grip on Shizuo’s length eases, his fingers drawing back and away; Shizuo collects himself into enough focus to tip his weight back over his heels as Izaya loosens his hold on his hip as well and looks down to consider the mess Shizuo has made over his fingers. “That was fun.” He’s still smiling, looking as self-satisfied as if he’s the one who just had his second orgasm in the last half-hour; when he lifts his wrist to his mouth the motion is so graceful it takes Shizuo a moment to realize what he’s doing, and by then Izaya’s already touching his tongue to his skin to catch the sticky spill of liquid at his lips. Shizuo’s breath rushes out of his lungs at once, all his body flushes hot as if sunlight has burst into his veins; Izaya’s lashes shift, his eyes flicking up to catch Shizuo’s shocked stare before he blinks himself back into heavy-lidded seduction as the corner of his mouth twitches on amusement.

“You don’t taste half bad,” he says, making a show of licking up the side of his wrist and over his fingers that is completely unnecessary and completely distracting to every single coherent thought Shizuo is trying to piece together. “Really?” is the best he can manage, and that just makes Izaya’s smile pull wider and makes the corners of his eyes tighten in amusement.

“Really,” he says, and lets his hand fall to the hem of his shirt instead. “Want to try for yourself?” His thumb catches under the elastic of his waistband, his wrist shifts to tug it down by a half-inch; Shizuo’s attention drops to the shadow of a sharp hipbone pressed close against pale skin, his gaze following the line of it down while Izaya’s fingers draw down against the fabric pulling tight around the outline of his own visibly renewed arousal. “I’ve never had a blowjob before either. If you want to be thorough about deflowering me you practically owe it to me, you know.”

Shizuo’s attention jumps back up from Izaya’s hips to the other’s face, his breathing catches sharp in his chest. “Really?”

Izaya rolls his eyes and heaves a gusty sigh. “ _Yes_ really. My god, Shizu-chan, how many times do you want me to spell out my virginity for you?”

Shizuo shakes his head, instant rejection of the topic while his focus is still clinging to its initial point. “Not that,” he says. “Can I really go down on you?”

Izaya’s smirk melts away. His lashes dip, shadowing over the amusement in his eyes, and when he opens them again his gaze is blank with shock, his lips parted on a huff of surprise. “What?”

“Can I?” Shizuo repeats, too warm with possibility to stop even as his cheeks burn with self-consciousness. “You don’t mind?”

Izaya’s forehead creases, his mouth flickers on a smile that melts as quickly as it comes, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “What?” he says again, and then, before Shizuo has a chance to reply, “ _No_ , I don’t mind, not if you...you really _want_ to?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says instantly, immediately, spilling the affirmative almost on top of Izaya’s question. “Yeah. Please.”

Izaya stares at him for another moment, his eyes still wide and startled like Shizuo’s done something completely beyond the realm of his expectations; his expression lingers for so long Shizuo is thinking of apologizing, of suggesting something else, of offering some kind of explanation for the years of fantasies he’s formed around the heat of Izaya’s skin under his lips, the strain of Izaya’s thighs under his touch, the taste of bitter and salt and shadow on his tongue. But then he shakes his head, sharp, like he’s bringing himself back to the present, and when he speaks it’s to say “Sure” as he pushes with more intent at the elastic of his briefs. “If you want to I’m not about to argue.”

“I do,” Shizuo says, and he’s reaching out to interrupt the movement of Izaya’s fingers, to take over the force against the other’s clothing as he fits his hands against the angle of Izaya’s hips. Izaya reaches up instead, his hand weighting to brace against Shizuo’s shoulder, but Shizuo doesn’t look up; he’s focused on the movement of his hands as he draws Izaya’s clothes down and off his legs to free the flushed heat of the other’s cock from the stretch of the elastic. Izaya’s half-hard as soon as Shizuo strips his briefs off his hips, his cock curving towards his stomach as Shizuo pulls his clothes down and free of his feet, and he tips his knees open in invitation as quickly, sliding his legs apart as he braces a hand against the floor alongside him and tightens his grip at Shizuo’s shoulder. His skin is pale, the lines of his hipbones collecting shadow like spilled ink, and Shizuo is reaching for that line, reaching for Izaya, sliding one hand up under the loose of Izaya’s shirt and bracing the other against the inside of the other’s knee as he tips himself forward and down to match the level of Izaya’s hips. Izaya hisses a sharp inhale, as if he’s startled again by Shizuo’s abrupt movement; and Shizuo ducks his head, and opens his mouth, and catches Izaya’s cock against the heat of his tongue rather than pausing for words. Izaya jerks at the contact, his exhale catching and dragging into a choked-off groan of sensation, and against Shizuo’s tongue his cock twitches, heat surging high to flush him hard against the weight of the other’s lips. Shizuo’s skin prickles, his body going hot just with the thought of it; but he’s too busy to pull away to give voice to the appreciation, too occupied with sliding the wet of his mouth down over Izaya all in one go. Izaya tastes like salt, the flavor bitter and sticky and clinging to the back of Shizuo’s tongue with the afterimage of the other’s first orgasm in the entryway, and maybe it would be unpleasant in another setting but right now it just tastes like heat, like the burn of smoke and that biting edge of the licorice tang that Shizuo has come to crave like it’s some physical need in him. He presses closer, lets Izaya slide farther back in his mouth, and Izaya’s fingers land in his hair, Izaya’s hold twists to a fist on the strands as the other makes a weak, broken sound over him. It would be enough to startle Shizuo into a panic in other situations, if he were less sure of himself; but Izaya’s pulling him in closer, and Izaya’s hips are rocking up to meet his mouth, and when Shizuo lets his hand slide sideways he can press the flat of his palm against Izaya’s stomach and feel the tremor of the other’s reaction coursing hot just under his fingertips. He draws back by an inch, presses his lips close together before sliding in again, and Izaya makes a low whimpering noise and grabs at Shizuo’s hair with his other hand as well. There’s no question of what he wants, not with both his hands clinging to urge Shizuo closer and his legs shaking under the weight of Shizuo’s touch; so Shizuo tenses his grip, and shuts his eyes, and loses himself to the taste of Izaya on his tongue.

Izaya doesn’t hold still. Even at the start, even on the first slick stroke of Shizuo’s mouth, Izaya is arching up off the wall, his hips rocking up hard to meet Shizuo’s lips in an instinctive motion no less strong for his lack of traction. Shizuo can feel the strain flex across Izaya’s stomach, can feel the shift of want against the inside of Izaya’s thigh; and when he presses it’s against that resistance, gentle force enough to pin Izaya back to stillness so Shizuo can set a slow-steady rhythm that falls in time with his heartbeat. Izaya’s fingers wind deeper into his hair, Izaya’s breathing catches and whines into bright edges of want over his head; but Shizuo doesn’t stop, and doesn’t slow, and even when Izaya pulls his foot free from under Shizuo’s arm and braces the inside of one knee against Shizuo’s shoulder Shizuo only notices it distantly, a far-off action compared to the bitter salt and saturated heat of Izaya over his tongue and filling his nose with every inhale. Izaya’s foot slides against his shirt, Izaya’s heel braces hard against his spine, and Shizuo’s fingers weight at Izaya’s thigh to hold the other’s leg open and steady against the support of the wall as he presses himself closer, as he drags his tongue up the whole salt-bitter length of Izaya against his lips. Izaya makes a sound, incoherent heat wrapped around syllables that might have been “ _Shizuo_ ” originally; and Shizuo groans without thinking, appreciation given voice in the form of humming vibration against the inside of his chest and the line of his throat. Izaya jerks, gasps, drags at his hair; and Shizuo does it again, his heart beating faster against his chest as Izaya’s cock spills droplets of bitter slick against his tongue. Shizuo feels like he’s drowning, like he’s melting, like everything in him is turning to languid heat with the press of his lips to Izaya’s skin; but Izaya is straining against him, his fingers pulling at Shizuo’s hair and his breathing catching sharp and anxious in the back of his throat with every inhale. Shizuo’s moving faster, he thinks, his rhythm giving way to the unvoiced command in Izaya’s hold or just to the pattern of his heart beating harder against his ribcage, and over him Izaya is finding sound from somewhere, “Shizu” and “I,” and “Ah” in frantic, straining overlay. Shizuo’s hand is pressing hard against Izaya’s stomach to hold the other back, his fingers are steady at the inside of Izaya’s thigh, and in his throat there’s sound, at his lips there’s heat, and his whole awareness is full of _Izaya_ , warm and straining and shaking under his touch. Shizuo tightens his lips against Izaya’s cock, sucks pressure against the other’s length, and: “ _Oh_ ” Izaya says, one bright sound of heat, and he’s coming, shuddering hard against all their points of contact as his cock twitches and spills hot salt across Shizuo’s tongue. Shizuo can feel the shudders of pleasure tensing and easing under the weight of his hands in time with the heat over his tongue, can feel the whole-body strain run through Izaya  to leave him trembling with boneless relief; he swallows hard to clear his mouth and draws back slowly, but even then Izaya jerks at the motion, his fingers pulling hard at Shizuo’s hair as the other draws back and away.

“There,” Shizuo says, feeling faintly dizzy, like his whole world has reoriented around the taste of Izaya on his tongue. Still, he’s pretty sure he has the advantage on the other; all the focus usually clinging to the shadows of Izaya’s lashes is gone, melted away into vague distraction barely enough to meet Shizuo’s gaze when he looks up to Izaya’s face. “Satisfied?”

“Ah,” Izaya says, and blinks hard, like he’s trying to pull his vision back to clarity. He doesn’t appear to be succeeding very well. “Mm. Yes. For now.”

Shizuo can feel his mouth tugging hard at the angle of a smile. “Think you can hold off long enough for me to take a shower before you resume your seduction?”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says, tipping his head to the side in a sketch of flirtation totally undone by the weight of satisfaction still clinging to his lashes and parting his lips to heat. “You tell me, Shizu-chan, can you keep your hands off me that long?”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Probably not,” he admits, and leans in to press his mouth to the soft heat of Izaya’s half-formed smile.

He does make it to the shower, eventually, but even by the time he’s done, his mouth is still warm with the taste of Izaya clinging to his lips.


	58. Better

Shizuo doesn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch. He had intended to finish his shower, and rouse Izaya from the heat-dazed delirium the other seemed to have drifted into where he sat on the bathroom floor, and maybe find the pajama pants and spare shirts he stored here months before to change into while Izaya’s in the shower. But Izaya’s still under the spray of the water when Shizuo has changed, and the couch is empty and inviting, and it’s all too easy to go from sitting to tipping sideways over the cushions, and then Shizuo is closing his eyes and drifting into a dream too vague to remember and too warm for him to care. He comes back up to consciousness to Izaya leaning over him with a hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and a smile curving over his lips, and when he suggests “come to bed, Shizu-chan, you’ll be more comfortable” Shizuo is more than happy to oblige. He stumbles in Izaya’s wake, too sleepy and heavy with exhaustion to manage more than a shuffle, but Izaya’s hand is caught in his, and that one point of contact is enough to keep Shizuo on track as Izaya leads him up the stairs to the second floor and the soft shadows of the bedroom Shizuo has only ever seen and never entered. But he’s there now, following Izaya to fall over the deep soft of the blankets, and distantly Shizuo thinks maybe this should feel strange but in the moment it seems the most natural thing in the world to kick his feet under unfamiliar blankets before reaching out to pull Izaya in close against him. Izaya slides back over the sheets, the whole length of his body pressing to fit close against Shizuo’s chest, and Shizuo lets his arm fall heavy around Izaya’s waist, and presses his nose into the dip between Izaya’s shoulderblades, and he’s asleep with his first licorice-weighted inhale.

His dreams are peaceful for the first several hours of the night. Shizuo’s exhausted, worn out multiple times over by the adrenaline of alternate panic and pleasure that held such sway over him for the span of the day; it’s not until the early hours of the morning that calm starts to give way to warmth, that the hazy comfort of his imagination starts to flicker into heat more than comfort. It’s a subtle change, fluid even in the space of his own unconsciousness; it’s only as Shizuo is starting to come up to awareness that he realizes how hard he is, that he can start to piece together the details of what his sleeping mind has formed for him. It’s a good dream, he thinks in the distance of his flickering awareness; Izaya’s with him, his mouth curving sharp on a teasing smile and his fingers winding up into Shizuo’s hair. There’s some suggestion of more to come, something they’re in the middle of, and Shizuo presses his eyes closed the tighter, as if he can cling to the fading edges of fantasy long enough to see the dream through to its conclusion. Izaya’s flushing to heat, now, his cheeks coloring dark and his lips parting on the gasp of his breathing, like Shizuo’s mind is trying to rush the logic along to its result before he comes all the way awake. Shizuo shifts his weight, his hips moving to grind against resistance in pursuit of that promised satisfaction, and Izaya arches under him, his head tipping back on a moan of “ _Shizuo_ ,” that comes with startling clarity. Shizuo blinks, his focus scattered for a moment of surprise; except he’s actually blinking, his eyes are opening, and Izaya is actually there too, still pressed as close against Shizuo’s chest as he was when they fell asleep. Shizuo stares, his dream-heated arousal forgotten for the first moment of surprise, and when he speaks it’s to say “Izaya?” as if to test the edges of this new, confusing reality.

“I hope so,” Izaya says, sounding strained and faintly amused and very, very real, with the bright edge on his voice Shizuo’s imagination can never quite manage. “Unless you wandered off to someone else’s bed while I was asleep.”

“Mm.” Shizuo blinks at the back of Izaya’s neck. “No.” His arm is still around the other’s waist, his whole body warm with the glow of extended physical contact. He ducks his head closer to press his forehead against Izaya’s shirt, to breathe in a lungful of heat off the other’s skin while his dizzy thoughts try to reconcile the similarities between his lost dream and his very present reality. “You’re warm.”

Izaya clears his throat. “Hot, actually.” His body shifts under Shizuo’s hold, his hips sliding back to shove hard against the other’s; for a moment Shizuo’s coherency vanishes entirely, his focus stripped away by the ache of friction as Izaya grinds back against him. “Which is completely your fault.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale, feeling all the air in his lungs straining on the first surge of want that rushes through him at this reminder of his current physical state. His other arm is pinned under Izaya, his wrist caught against the other’s shoulder; when he shifts to pull it free he can feel the whole flex of Izaya’s body against him as the other moves to help. Shizuo’s fingers slide down, over the shift of Izaya’s startlingly fast breathing and the curve of his waist, against the angle of hipbone sharp under fragile skin; Shizuo fits his fingers against that outline, presses his hold to the sharp edge of bone and warm skin as his memory catches up to his actions, as recollection unravels the damp of sweat and the pant of overheated breathing and Izaya, the smooth of pale skin at the inside of his thighs and the press of his fingers and the dip of his lashes, the sound of his voice breaking over a gasping moan as Shizuo presses into him. The thought runs electric up Shizuo’s spine and aches hot against the flush of his cock, and when he moves to grind himself against Izaya’s hip it’s an unthinking movement, instinct and reflex together guiding his body instead of his blurry thoughts. Izaya shudders against him, his whole body curving in immediate response to the pressure, and Shizuo’s heart stutters, his breathing rushing out hard against the back of Izaya’s neck.

“Fuck.” Izaya’s shirt is under his fingers; it’s thin, the fabric barely a barrier at all, but it’s still between them, still something preventing Shizuo’s skin from touching Izaya’s. He lets reflex guide his touch, lets his fingertips find the edge of the fabric and push up under it to slide his hand over the tremor across Izaya’s stomach to catch at the rhythm of the other’s breathing flexing his ribcage. “I’m barely awake.”

“You’re awake enough,” Izaya says. Shizuo takes a breath against the back of Izaya’s neck, filling his lungs with the heat of the other’s skin and his mouth with the taste of licorice, and when he presses forward to get closer Izaya lets himself be pushed down over the bed, Shizuo’s motion bearing them both down until he’s more on top of Izaya than next to him. They both shift at once, Shizuo’s hips rocking forward at the same time Izaya shudders and curves under him, and Shizuo feels dizzy with heat, like his thoughts are going tipsy with the intoxication of Izaya so close against him.

Izaya gasps an inhale, his fingers sliding to grasp at a fist of the sheets next to them; when he speaks his voice is breathy, the words struggling in an attempt at his usual careless grace. “Is this not how you want to wake up in the morning?”

Shizuo shakes his head in immediate surrender. “No,” he says. “This is fine.” He rocks himself forward again and Izaya shudders under him, his whole body tensing into a short, helpless action to buck his hips down against the resistance of the sheets under him. He’s warm to the touch, all his skin radiant where Shizuo touches it, and Shizuo doesn’t have to think about his movement at all, doesn’t have to put any conscious effort into rocking his weight back over his knees, into closing his fingers at Izaya’s hip and urging the other back to meet him. Izaya arches into instant obedience, his shirt riding up along the dip of his spine as he presses himself back hard against the resistance of Shizuo’s cock, and Shizuo _wants_ him, wants to strip off the barrier of their clothes and slide himself into the heat of Izaya’s body and feel all those half-formed tremors in the other’s shoulder pressed as close against him as they can get. He ducks his head to press his mouth to Izaya’s hair, to pin the dark strands against pale skin with the weight of his mouth, and his lips are still against the heat of Izaya’s skin when he murmurs, “Do you have lube here too?” like an offering to the strain thrumming across Izaya’s shoulders.

Izaya lifts his head, turning to look out at the flat of a table alongside the soft tangle of the bedsheets. “There,” he says, and lifts a hand to gesture; but Shizuo has already seen the bottle set just in reach against the surface, and he’s rocking back to reach for it while Izaya is still trying to steady his balance under him. The bottle is cool to the touch, slick and smooth against Shizuo’s palm; he braces it tighter against his grip to make sure it won’t slide free, and then he’s coming back in before he’s even stopped to open the lid, drawn helplessly by the need to be nearer, to press closer, to reorient his whole existence against the flushed heat of Izaya’s body under him and Izaya’s skin against his. It’s only as his mouth returns to the pale curve of skin against the collar of Izaya’s shirt that he thinks to ask, only as his mouth fits a kiss against the press of bone under skin that he finds voice: “Is this okay?” because he has to ask, even if he can feel the _yes_ trembling in every breath Izaya takes under him, even if he’s already pushing the cap of the bottle open and fumbling to spill liquid across his fingers.

“Yes,” Izaya says, his voice straining against his chest, and Shizuo shuts the bottle again, dropping and forgetting it in the same breath. Izaya shifts under him, his back curving and hips rocking up, and Shizuo lets his touch trail against the curve of Izaya’s spine, lets his fingers slip under the waistband of the boxers Izaya wore to bed the night before. “What do you think I woke you up for?” Shizuo’s fingers slide down over hot skin, the slick of the liquid coating them smoothing his motion; underneath him Izaya gasps a lungful of air, at the sheets Izaya’s fingers drag at the fist he’s made of the blankets. “You owe me, after yesterday.”

Shizuo huffs the vague outline of a laugh into Izaya’s hair. “Shut up,” he says, embarrassment turned over to soft affection by the anticipation of pleasure, by the tremor of Izaya’s body reacting to even this first touch. “That was the first time, give me a break.”

“I will.” Shizuo’s fingers slide against Izaya’s skin, pressing against the heat of the other’s entrance; Izaya tenses at the touch, his body flexing tighter underneath Shizuo’s against him, but when he moves it’s to arch himself backwards, to rock his hips up and press back against the resistance of Shizuo’s fingers against him. Izaya tips his head to look back over his shoulder at Shizuo; his eyes are dark, his lashes heavy. There’s a flush across his cheeks, the same high color that is so shadowing his gaze; his lips are parted even before he speaks, like he’s struggling to fill his lungs with enough air to keep up with his need for it. “Prove me wrong, Shizuo.”

“Fine,” Shizuo growls, heat turning to agreement in his throat, and he moves at once, letting the slick force of his touch push past Izaya’s entrance and into the give of the other’s body. Izaya’s legs flex, his body tenses hard around the push of Shizuo’s finger; but his lashes are fluttering shut, his mouth is falling open, and when he groans it sounds like pure heat, like all the fire in Shizuo’s veins is finding voice in Izaya’s throat. Shizuo’s cock twitches, his body responding with involuntary speed to Izaya’s reaction; but there’s a crease at Izaya’s forehead, pressure still straining across his thighs, and concern wins out over arousal to stall Shizuo’s motions on hesitance.

“Are you okay?” he asks, hearing his voice skip high over panic. Under him Izaya tenses, his whole body going suddenly taut with reaction; but when he speaks it’s to say “ _Yes_ ,” blurting the word with as much desperation as if he’s pleading for his life. Shizuo takes a sharp inhale, concern responding to Izaya’s tone more than the meaning of his speech, and Izaya flinches, tension flickering across his features for a moment like he’s regretting his own action. He turns his head, pressing his face down to the blankets so Shizuo can’t see his expression, and when he speaks again it’s far calmer, deliberately pressed to a level tone like he’s fighting for at least the appearance of composure.

“Yes.” His fingers unclench from the sheets, his hand smoothing to press with intentional force against the bed under them. “Keep going, Shizuo.”

Shizuo isn’t sure he should listen. Izaya’s still straining under him, his legs still trembling and his body still tensing in reflexive waves of reaction against his touch. But Izaya sounds almost panicked, like he’s more horrified by the idea of Shizuo pulling away than anything else, and Shizuo wants to soothe that away, at least, wants to ease the strain from Izaya’s voice and undo the tension in his body into trembling heat instead. So: “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, trying to put to words what he’s not sure Izaya will actually do, and he presses in farther, sliding his touch deeper by a careful inch. Izaya tenses again, his whole body flexing taut under Shizuo’s; but when he groans it’s unmistakeable heat at his lips, when he shifts it’s to clutch at the pillow next to him, and when he moves it’s to push himself backwards hard, like he’s trying to seek out more friction from Shizuo inside him. Shizuo has to grab at Izaya’s hip, has to hold the other steady against the press of his hand just to keep him from hurting himself; but his heart is pounding too, his concern is evaporating to the surging heat rushing through his veins in answer to Izaya’s involuntary movement under him.

“Shit,” Shizuo gasps, and he’s moving, sliding his touch back to push in again, to draw that shudder of reaction up along Izaya’s spine once more. Izaya tenses under him in perfect obedience, gasping into a breath Shizuo can feel burn against his chest as if it’s his own, and his knees are sliding wider on the bed, his thighs angling open like he’s trying to urge Shizuo nearer with the invitation. Shizuo pulls back before thrusting in again, deeper still, his touch granted greater access by the shift in Izaya’s position, and Izaya whimpers incoherently against the pillows and untangles his grip from the sheets to fit his fingers down under himself instead. Shizuo catches a breath, the suggestion of the action more than he can take for a moment; and then Izaya’s wrist shifts, his breathing spills out of him in a rush, and Shizuo groans as he feels Izaya tense around him as the other strokes against himself. His cock is aching, his imagination skipping frantic over the idea: Izaya’s fingers closing around his own length, Izaya’s touch drawing out the rhythm of pleasure over himself, and then Izaya gasps “Another,” and Shizuo remembers what he’s meant to be focusing on in a rush. Izaya’s not straining around his touch anymore, there’s no sign of tension against his legs except for the heat Shizuo can feel running in tiny shudders of movement down Izaya’s back against his chest; so he moves without hesitating, sliding his finger back so he can set a second alongside the first and press back in. Izaya gives way to him immediately, his body warm and easing open to the force of Shizuo’s touch, and Shizuo’s moaning, “ _Izaya_ ” falling hot from his lips as his fingers slide deep into the heat of the other’s body.

It’s dizzying to be so close, to have Izaya so near; Shizuo can feel every tremor of sensation rippling through Izaya’s body under him, around him, can feel every stroke of the other’s hand over himself tense and flex around the resistance of his fingers. It’s easy to match Izaya’s movement, to fit the rhythmic thrust of his fingers to the drag of the other’s hand, and Shizuo’s hips are moving too, his body rocking down in reflexive pursuit of friction to match what he can feel trembling under Izaya’s skin with every motion either of them take. His cock aches for more, his spine prickles with the pressure of want crushing his breathing to a desperate pace, but there’s a satisfaction in that too, a pleasure to letting this moment draw long while Shizuo’s whole body thrums with desire for the friction to come, while he pulls helpless tremors of desire along Izaya’s spine and spilling into moans in Izaya’s throat with every movement he takes. His fingers press deeper, faster, pushing Izaya open with nothing but answering heat by way of protest; and finally he takes a breath, and collects his coherency back around himself, and slides his touch back with careful intent.

“Izaya,” he says, the familiar shape of the other’s name coming breathlessly hot against the back of Izaya’s neck. “I’m going to--”

“Yes,” Izaya says immediately, before Shizuo can even finish, the haste of his agreement giving away his own enthusiasm so clearly Shizuo doesn’t need to ask for confirmation. He pulls away instead, moving fast to make the ache of separation as minimal as possible; as he sits up the blanket half-covering them slides back as well, tangling somewhere around his feet where he promptly forgets all about it. Izaya is turning onto his side, sliding his hand free of his boxers so he can push the clothing off his hips entirely, and Shizuo gives up on watching for the efficiency of stripping his own clothes off, pulling his t-shirt over his head in one quick motion so he can cast it over the edge of the bed to be as entirely disregarded as Izaya’s boxers. Izaya’s up on one elbow underneath him, his legs bare and pale against the dark of his sheets, but his eyes are fixed on Shizuo, his attention clinging close to the motion of the other’s shoulders as Shizuo lets his shirt drop to the floor. Shizuo can feel his skin prickle hot with self-awareness, like he’s suddenly aware of every shift of his body that he usually disregards as unimportant; but he’s paying more attention to Izaya’s clothes, to the weight of the dark shirt catching against the other’s hip to still leave most of his skin hidden underneath the cover of fabric instead of laid bare for Shizuo’s gaze.

“Take your shirt off too,” Shizuo says, and Izaya blinks and obeys, pushing against the sheets to sit up so he can drag his shirt up over his head while Shizuo shoves against the waistband of his pajama pants. He gets the weight of them off his hips and tangled around his knees before Izaya strips his shirt loose; and then all Shizuo’s attention demands that he reach out for the other at once. Izaya’s beautiful stripped down to skin, the dark of his hair and shadowed eyes contrasting sharply with the pale curve of his throat, the dip of his collarbones, the angle of his waist, and Shizuo’s hands find their way to Izaya’s body before he can think, one curling against the back of the other’s neck and the other reaching for Izaya’s hip to brace him still as Shizuo leans in for the part of Izaya’s lips under his. Izaya turns to meet him instantly, his lashes dipping shut even as his chin comes up to make an offering of his mouth, and his hands are on Shizuo while the other is still struggling free of his pajama pants and kicking them out of the way at the end of the bed. Izaya’s fingers brace at Shizuo’s collarbone, against Shizuo’s hip, and then he’s tipping towards the sheets and Shizuo is following him, too lost to the heat of Izaya’s mouth under his to care where they end up so long as they’re together. Izaya’s warm against him, everywhere they touch skin presses hot against bare skin, and if Shizuo is trying to pull Izaya closer against him Izaya is just as quick to arch in too, to pin himself flush to Shizuo’s chest and gasp for air against the damp of Shizuo’s mouth. Izaya’s cock is hot against Shizuo’s hip, they’re pressing hard against each other with every move they make, and Shizuo’s fingers tighten at Izaya’s skin, his grip steadying to drag Izaya tighter against him as if they can somehow get closer even than they already are, as if they might be able to melt into each other if he just pulls harder. Izaya’s mouth opens against Shizuo’s, his tongue catching to slide over the other’s, and Shizuo doesn’t see how he’s ever going to be able to disentangle himself from Izaya long enough even to fit his hips between the other’s legs, long enough to pay attention to the intricacies of fitting their bodies together. He can’t get close enough, he thinks, he won’t be able to have Izaya pressed this flush against his heart pounding in his chest if they’re--and an idea presents itself, a solution so immediately clear it’s as if it formed itself from the air rather than from any input at all on Shizuo’s part. He tightens his grip at Izaya’s hip, his fingers sliding to fit into the dip of warm skin, and then he musters all his strength, and pushes enough to urge Izaya back by an inch.

“Here,” he says, struggling to find coherency for his tongue when all he can taste is licorice and vanilla. “Turn over.”

Izaya blinks. “Why?” he asks, but Shizuo’s pushing before the other speaks, tipping Izaya back over the bed with the ease of physical action rather than verbal explanation. Izaya’s forehead creases, his lips part on what Shizuo is sure is protest, but Shizuo doesn’t give him time to find voice for it. He tightens his hold at Izaya’s shoulder instead, turning him over entirely onto his far side while Izaya is still blinking into confusion, and then he’s pulling again, drawing Izaya back to fit against him in a motion far simpler than it was to push him away. It feels like magnetism, like letting some outside force bring together what was meant to be one, and when Shizuo ducks his head like this he can press his nose to the side of Izaya’s neck, can breathe in hard against the pulse fluttering just under the other’s skin. His whole body is hot, his skin flushing warm with satisfaction, and Izaya is reaching back to clutch hard at Shizuo’s hip, Izaya is curving his spine to grind hard against Shizuo with all the fluid grace that he used to pull the other up out of his dream.

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, because this is better than a dream, this is better than anything his imagination could ever hope to provide. “Like this” and he’s reaching for himself, closing his hand against the rigid heat of his cock and stroking up to coat himself in what lubrication still clings to his skin. Izaya’s trembling, his breathing catching loud against the quiet of the room, but Shizuo can still hear his own heartbeat more clearly, can hear the way it’s pounding in his ears in anticipation of what is to come. He’s achingly hard, he can feel the tension of desire all the way up his spine and straining across his shoulders; but that’s okay, it’s all okay, because Shizuo’s shifting forward and Izaya’s tipping onto his stomach under him and underneath him there’s just warm skin and the slick tension of Izaya’s body pressing against the head of his cock. Shizuo looks down, just for a moment, to grant himself the benefit of vision as he lines himself up;  and then his hips are canting forward, and he sees himself start to slide into Izaya, and his vision is melting away and his voice is breaking on a moan and Izaya, Izaya is trembling under him, his whole body flexing and easing in a long shudder of involuntary reaction as Shizuo sinks farther into him. Shizuo’s pressing closer, deeper, his chest fitting against Izaya’s shoulders as smoothly as their bodies fit together, and his arm is fitting around Izaya’s waist, his hand is spreading to brace against the other’s chest as he tips them onto their sides so the bed is taking his weight instead of the other. Their legs are a tangle, their skin pressed close together, and when Shizuo breathes “God,” against Izaya’s shoulder it spills hot over the other’s skin, his voice turned to liquid by the shuddering pleasure coursing through him in place of blood. Izaya’s tight around him, his breathing catching high and desperate in his throat; it must be a strain, Shizuo thinks, but Izaya’s fingers are digging in harder against Shizuo’s hip, and what Shizuo can see of his expression looks stunned, like all the tension usually under his expression has been swept completely clean by the intensity of the experience. Shizuo can feel heat spike higher in him, can feel desire drag a breathless groan from his throat, and when he moves it’s instinctive, a rocking action of his hips that slides him back by an inch before he thrusts forward again. Izaya shifts with the force, his body slipping by a half-inch before Shizuo’s hold steadies him, and then Shizuo’s sinking deeper and all the air in his lungs rushes out of him in one helpless sound of heat. “ _Izaya_.”

“Oh,” Izaya manages, his fingers clutching hard at Shizuo’s hip, his voice dragging like he can’t get enough air. He’s hard when Shizuo glances down, his cock straining in a sharp curve towards his stomach; Shizuo lets his free hand slide down while he maintains his bracing hold, trailing his touch across Izaya’s hip and over the tension along the other’s stomach until he can ghost his fingers across the flushed-slick head. Izaya jerks against him, blurting “ _Fuck_ ” as his whole body tenses to arch towards Shizuo’s hold, and Shizuo closes his hand tight around Izaya without even thinking, without hesitating over the strength of his grip. It must be too much, he must be pressing too hard; except that Izaya is arching against him, his throat is opening up on a groan of unmistakable heat, and Shizuo is moving instead of drawing back, rocking his hips forward and up to thrust deeper against the tremor of reaction running through Izaya’s entire body.

“Fuck,” Izaya gasps again, quivering helplessly as Shizuo strokes up over him. His fingers are still digging in hard at Shizuo’s hip, his nails bracing tight against the skin, but as Shizuo moves into him his other hand comes up too, his fingers tangling to fist against the locks of the other’s hair and drag sharp pressure over Shizuo’s scalp. Izaya’s back is curving, his whole body drawing taut against Shizuo’s movement, but Shizuo doesn’t let him go and doesn’t pull away, and Izaya’s gasping for air, his cock is spilling the heat of pre-come across Shizuo’s fingers with every stroke the other takes over or into him.

“Izaya,” Shizuo groans, tasting Izaya’s name on his tongue, feeling the heat of Izaya’s skin filling his lungs and spilling slick past his lips. Every breath he takes fills his chest with heat, every lungful of air saturating and satisfying some deep-down need he’s carried like a burden for years. “You. _God_ , you smell so _good._ ”

“Shizuo,” Izaya starts, his voice clear for the span of a breath; but then Shizuo strokes up over the heat of the other’s cock, and he can feel the twitch of helpless reaction run through the whole of Izaya’s body, can feel the reflexive jerk of motion as Izaya’s head angles back, his throat straining on the same heat flexing so hard in his thighs, and when Izaya gasps an exhale the name has turned into a plea, has gone sharp and brittle with desperation. “ _Shizuo_.”

“I’m here,” Shizuo tells him, because Izaya’s fingers are clutching at him like he thinks Shizuo is going to vanish, Izaya’s whole body is straining against him like he’s trying to pin Shizuo still through a full-body effort. Shizuo is panting for air, his heart hammering in his chest, but he’s still moving, still clinging to the rhythm formed between the stroke of his hand and the thrust of his hips as his thoughts go hazy, as his awareness narrows down to just Izaya against him, just Izaya shaking in his hold. “Izaya, I’m here.”

“I’m,” Izaya chokes off, the whole of his body flexing tight against and around Shizuo. “I.” His breathing catches, his throat working over nonexistent sound; and then Shizuo’s fingers slip over his cock, and all Izaya’s tension gives way at once, “ _Shizuo_ ” turned into an orgasmic moan at his lips as he trembles with the convulsive relief of pleasure. He’s coming over his stomach, over Shizuo’s fingers, his whole body rippling with waves of sensation as he gasps with heat, and Shizuo can feel it, can feel Izaya shaking against the support of his arm and can feel the waves of heat under his hold and can feel Izaya clenching tight around him, his body seizing reflexive tremors hard around the press of Shizuo’s cock. Shizuo can’t catch his breath, can’t find his composure; it’s too much, it’s too immediate, to feel the full force of Izaya coming against him as if it’s Shizuo’s own satisfaction, as if it’s his own pleasure rippling out into his awareness to haze his vision out of importance. Izaya gasps a breath, the reflexive shudders of orgasm easing to leave him languid with relief, and Shizuo lets his hold on the other’s length go to brace at his hip instead, to hold the warm weight of Izaya’s body steady while he moves harder into him, feeling his control over his own movements slipping away as satisfaction draws closer. Izaya quivers with each thrust, tensing in involuntary aftershocks with every forward press of Shizuo’s cock, and all Shizuo can smell is Izaya’s skin, all he can feel is Izaya’s heat, all he can...and his mouth comes open at Izaya’s shoulder, his chest flexes on a brief, unstudied sound of want, and his whole world fractures away, even the details of himself dissolving into the friction of Izaya around him, the taste of licorice on his tongue, the heat pulsing radiant through the whole of himself. He _is_ heat, there’s nothing else to him; and then he shudders through a last wave of pleasure, and comes back into himself, his body shaking with aftershocks of orgasm and Izaya breathless with heat in his arms. Shizuo lets his grip at Izaya’s hip go, easing his fingers from the tension of his hold as he sighs into relief, and then he shuts his eyes while they both catch their breath for a moment.

It’s Izaya who speaks first, breaking the peace between them with an impressive attempt at a casual tone only a little bit undermined by the way he runs out of breath at the end of his sentence. “That was acceptable, I suppose.” His fingers loosen in Shizuo’s hair, his hold sliding to drag gently over the other’s scalp. “You’re a fast learner, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale against Izaya’s shoulder without opening his eyes. “Shut up,” he says, tightening his arm closer against the other’s chest. “I could feel how hard you came, don’t try to be coy.”

“Mm.” Shizuo presses his lips against Izaya’s shoulder, pinning a kiss to flushed skin as he braces himself to slide carefully free of the other’s body; he’s as gentle as he can be, but Izaya still tenses at the drag, his body flexing taut for a moment as Shizuo winces unvoiced apology. “I’m still sore.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, agreement and apology at once in his throat. He shifts behind Izaya, just by an inch, enough to lift his head so he can look down at the curve of the other’s shoulder down to the rhythm of his breathing against his chest, to the dip of his waist and the angle of a narrow hip. There’s a mark there, something not adequately explained by the shadows cast by the light coming through the window; Shizuo frowns, reaching out for the odd coloring, and it’s just as his fingertips skim across the pattern that he realizes what he’s seeing with a swoop of horror icy in his stomach. “Shit.”

Izaya stirs. “What is it?” He turns his head to look, the motion languid and heavy with heat; but Shizuo’s too caught by the grip of realization to even afford appreciation to the picture Izaya is making of himself. He’s staring at the shadows instead, at the pattern of bruised-in color rising under Izaya’s fragile skin, at the set of his own fingerprints marked out like irrevocable proof of his guilt, of his inability to touch anything without harming it even with years of experience to train him to do otherwise.

“I hurt you,” he says, feeling the words like condemnation in his throat, seeing the fit of his fingertips against the marks of damage under Izaya’s skin. His throat tenses, his eyes burn; there’s pressure on his chest, it’s impossible to catch his breath. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it.”

The words are a command, an order bright and sure enough to cut right past the rising chill of misery in Shizuo’s veins and jolt him back to the present moment. He looks up, his focus dragged unavoidably by the snap of that voice, and Izaya’s gazing right at him, his forehead creased on irritation and mouth drawn down into the sharp edges of a frown.

“Why are you apologizing?” he demands, his voice still crystalline-clear enough to break past the distractions of guilt and concern alike and ring in Shizuo’s thoughts with the bright clarity of a bell. “We had sex on the _floor_. Of course we were going to get bruised.”

Shizuo frowns, looks back down to the outline of his bracing thumb coming in dark against Izaya’s hipbone, to the lighter array of fingerprints from his too-tight hold as they moved together yesterday. Izaya makes it seem reasonable, makes it seem like a casual thing, but: “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” Izaya says, agreement so immediate it pulls Shizuo’s attention back to the other’s face without any chance for hesitation. Izaya’s still looking at him, his eyes still dark on Shizuo’s features, but his frown has eased, and what tension there still is across his forehead is the lighter burden of exasperation more than anger or the hurt Shizuo was so dreading seeing. “You didn’t.” Izaya’s gaze slips up to Shizuo’s hair, his mouth tugging taut at the corner; he twists in Shizuo’s hold, turning so he can lift his arm up around the other’s neck and fit his fingers against the fall of hair at the back of Shizuo’s neck. “I _liked_ it. It’s a bruise, Shizuo, not the apocalypse.” His fingers slide up higher, his mouth quirks onto the beginnings of a smile that sparkles in the dark of his eyes. “Next time you can carry me into the comfort of the bedroom before you fuck me senseless.” He sounds warm, pleased, like he’s relishing the shape of the idea even in teasing; there’s no discomfort anywhere in his expression, no shadow of unhappiness behind his eyes, and the cold knot of panic in Shizuo’s chest gives way all at once, melting to the purr of Izaya’s voice as if it’s the summer sun.

Shizuo can feel his mouth catch on a smile as much relieved as it is amused as Izaya’s fingers slide farther up into his hair to cradle against the back of his head. “Next next time, you mean?”

“Sure.” Izaya’s fingers twist, his grip tugging hard at Shizuo’s hair for a moment; Shizuo winces at the pull, his attention scattering for a brief moment to the pressure, and when he blinks himself back to the present Izaya’s smiling up at him, his mouth soft and his eyes dark with warmth. “Stop worrying, Shizu-chan.” Shizuo looks at Izaya -- the curve of his lips, the tangle of his hair, the satisfaction heavy at his lashes -- and takes a breath, and obeys.

He’s sure Izaya can find better things for him to do, anyway.


	59. Official

“You don’t need to look so terrified,” Shizuo reminds Izaya as they round the corner to their end goal. “It’s just my family. You know them, you’ve known them for _years_. It’s not like they’ve forgotten who you are.”

“Of course they haven’t,” Izaya snaps back at him, his voice catching high and straining over the words. “I don’t think that. And I’m not _terrified_. I deal with the yakuza on a regular basis, Shizu-chan, it takes more than this to scare me.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says without looking away from the other. Izaya’s jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the street in front of them; his focus has been steadily narrowing for the past ten minutes, until now it’s been blocks since he so much as glanced at Shizuo. His lips are pressed tight together, Shizuo thinks to keep them from trembling, and his face is so pale that even the rapidly fading shadows of sleep deprivation under his lashes show up in as stark relief as if it’s his high school graduation all over again. In another situation Shizuo’s shoulders would be hunching, his whole body would be tensing as if to make a wall of himself between Izaya and whatever threat is being offered; under the current circumstances he has to press his lips tight together to keep from laughing. “Yeah, I can see how calm you are.”

“Shut up,” Izaya grates without looking up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “I’m _fine_.”

Shizuo takes a deep breath and sighs out an exhale that goes steam-hazy in the chill air in front of them. When he reaches out it’s to touch his fingertips to the tension against Izaya’s arm, to trail contact down against the strain holding the other’s arms tightly folded over his chest as if to offer protection to the fragile shape of his ribcage; Izaya flinches at the contact, his shoulder draws up in reflexive reaction, but his head turns too, his focus pulling away from the sidewalk in front of them to Shizuo’s touch at his sleeve, and as Shizuo slides his hand down to curl around Izaya’s elbow some of the strain eases from the other’s posture as well.

“It’s okay,” Shizuo tells him, sliding his fingertips in along the sleeve of Izaya’s coat and down to the soft give of the fur cuff. Izaya has his hand tucked behind the barrier of his far elbow, where Shizuo can’t reach his fingers easily, but he can fit his touch in under the weight of the cuff to stroke gentle comfort across the angle of Izaya’s tense wrist. Izaya ducks his head far enough forward that his hair falls to half-hide his expression, but the strain against his arm is easing fractionally, the angle of his wrist is giving way from the painfully forced pressure he was exerting on it. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“As my bodyguard?” Izaya asks. “I thought there was nothing to worry about.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “There isn’t.” His thumb slips over Izaya’s wrist to curl around the sharp angle of it; Izaya’s hand shifts very slightly, drawing back from the protection of his arm like he’s considering letting his defenses ease. “Give me your hand, Izaya.”

“Why?” Izaya says, but he’s letting Shizuo tug his hand loose without pulling back. “It’s colder like this.”

“I know.” Shizuo slides his fingers up against the inside of Izaya’s palm; Izaya’s head tips down, his gaze tracking at their wrists for a moment while Shizuo’s touch catches at the gaps between Izaya’s fingers. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Izaya snorts. “What a gentlemen,” he deadpans, but he’s letting Shizuo’s fingers fit between his, and some of the tension across his shoulders is unwinding as Shizuo’s hand closes around his. “Do you say that to all your boyfriends?”

“You mean to you?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya’s head comes up, his gaze finally lifting to meet Shizuo’s. “I just did, so yeah, I guess so.”

Izaya’s mouth twitches at the corner. “Idiot,” he says.

“Brat,” Shizuo returns. They’re nearly to the house; Shizuo draws them to a stop just alongside the front gate, turning in to face Izaya without letting his hand go. “It’s going to be fine.”

Izaya looks unconvinced. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Shizuo says, and ducks closer to press his mouth against the crease at Izaya’s forehead. Dark hair catches against his lips, the weight of his kiss pins the strands to Izaya’s skin, and Izaya’s lashes flutter closed for a moment, his head tipping down to submit to Shizuo’s touch, or maybe more in the style of a benevolent ruler accepting deserved tribute. It makes Shizuo smile, makes his fingers tighten around Izaya’s, and he’s just opening his mouth to murmur reassurance against the other’s skin when a voice breaks into his attention.

“It’s warmer inside, you know.”

Shizuo startles back by inches, adrenaline rushing to seize hard in all his muscles as he steps back from Izaya in front of him; he can feel Izaya tense in instant reaction, can see the shift of the other’s shoulders come up into that wall again. His hand pulls against Shizuo’s, his fingers slide by a half-inch in the other’s hold, and Shizuo reacts without thinking to tighten his grip and keep Izaya’s hand tangled in his.

“Kasuka,” he says. “Hey.”

“Mom’s waiting for you,” Kasuka says, sounding as disinterested in this statement as he appears to be in catching his brother kissing his best friend on the front path of their family home. “Come in and shut the door.”

“Right,” Shizuo says, and Kasuka turns to head back down the hallway with the same calm he always shows. Shizuo’s heart is pounding, his face is burning with embarrassment, but Izaya is worse; he’s still tugging at Shizuo’s hold on his hand, and when Shizuo looks back down the duck of Izaya’s chin is nothing like sufficient to hide the crimson spilling over his cheeks.

Shizuo clears his throat. “Let’s go inside,” he suggests, and tugs against Izaya’s hand in his to urge the other towards the door.

“Oh my god,” Izaya says, so softly Shizuo isn’t sure he’s meant to hear and isn’t sure Izaya is going to come with him after all; but when Shizuo takes a tentative step Izaya matches him, moving as immediately behind Shizuo as he can manage without shaking his hand free of the other’s hold. It’s like he’s trying to disappear, or maybe just that he really is attempting to use Shizuo as armor against the dangers presented by a family dinner; it makes Shizuo want to sigh and laugh at the same time. The tension between the two reactions holds level as they make their way up the front path and through the door Kasuka left open behind him; Shizuo leads Izaya into the entryway and steps clear of the door before he pushes it shut in their wake.

“I’m home,” he calls, habit winning out over the embarrassed flush still clinging warm to his cheeks. Izaya’s fingers tighten hard against Shizuo’s hand, his hold tensing right up to the point of pain, and Shizuo is just looking back as his mother calls “Welcome home!” from the direction of the living room. “Do you have Izaya-kun with you?”

“Good evening,” Izaya manages, achieving something surprisingly close to an ordinary tone given that he looks like he’s about to pass out where he stands. Shizuo wants to catch his eye to give him a smile, or maybe to step in closer even than they are to drape his arm around Izaya’s shoulders, but Izaya’s not looking at him, and he looks so tight-wound Shizuo thinks he might collapse entirely at something too startling. Shizuo thinks about letting the other’s hand go, wonders if Izaya wouldn’t prefer to be left free; but Izaya’s the one holding to Shizuo, now, his fingers pressing so hard Shizuo can feel the ache running all up his arm, so he doesn’t make any attempt to loosen his grip or slide his hand away.

“It’s just my mom,” he tells Izaya, speaking softly while they work their shoes off by the front door. Izaya’s head is ducked down to give the motion his complete attention; he doesn’t look up at Shizuo’s voice. “And Kasuka. You don’t need to be so nervous, they know you.”

“They don’t know me like this,” Izaya says, his voice skidding out on audible strain in his chest.

“It’ll be fine,” Shizuo tells him. “I’m here, it’s okay.” He tightens his hold against Izaya’s hand, squeezing as hard against the other’s fingers as Izaya is clutching his for just a moment. Izaya hisses an inhale, his breath catching in his throat, and when Shizuo says “Izaya,” his chin comes up by a span of inches, his gaze flickering up from under the shadow of his hair to catch and meet Shizuo’s. The tension in his jaw has eased, his mouth has gone soft and trembling with uncertainty; for a moment even his eyes are wide, his whole expression left open and vulnerable in a way that Shizuo has only seen it a bare handful of times in his life. It has the same effect now as it ever has: there’s a pressure knotting against his chest, a hitch in the rhythm of his breathing, and an urge all through his body to reach out, to catch his arms around Izaya and hold back the whole of the world for a moment while the other collects himself. And now he can, now he _does_ ; he lifts his free arm to loop around Izaya’s shoulders, to press his fingers up into the soft of the other’s hair, and Izaya leans in as quickly as Shizuo urges him, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Shizuo’s shoulder and to take a breath against the front of the other’s vest that shudders over the tension Shizuo can feel under the weight of his hold.

“It’s okay,” he says against Izaya’s hair, speaking softly enough that the words fall more to a murmur than clear sound.

Izaya huffs against his vest. “Of course it is,” he says. “It’s just dinner.” But when he lifts his arm to reach around Shizuo’s waist his fingers clutch hard at the back of the other’s vest, and Shizuo can hear the strain on the other’s breathing as he inhales deep against the fabric. Izaya’s shoulders tense, his whole body goes taut for a moment; and then he sighs, and lets his hold go, and he’s stepping away as fast as Shizuo lets him go. His cheeks are still faintly pink, his mouth still paler than it should be; but his expression is composed, and his gaze is steady, and when Shizuo steps out of the entryway to pad down the hallway Izaya follows with a pace so perfectly steady Shizuo wouldn’t realize the other was stressed at all but for the pressure of Izaya’s fingers digging in hard against the back of his hand.

“Hey mom,” Shizuo says as he steps around the corner of the doorway into the living room. Kasuka is just coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and his phone in the other; he glances up at Shizuo and Izaya as they come into view, then back to his phone without sparing much interest for their arrival. But Shizuo’s mother is looking up from where she’s kneeling in front of the kotatsu, smiling even before she sees them properly, and she’s getting to her feet while Shizuo is still looking back to gesture needlessly at Izaya next to him. “I brought Izaya.”

“Izaya-kun,” his mother says, her voice soft and warm enough to match the smile she offers as she reaches out to catch Izaya’s free hand and draw him farther into the room. Izaya takes a step forward at her urging, the action taking him slightly farther away from Shizuo and drawing their entwined hands into clear view instead of half-hidden behind Shizuo’s hip, but she doesn’t so much as glance down; all her attention is dedicated to beaming at Izaya as she clasps his hand between both her own. “It’s so good to see you again. It’s been years, I keep telling Shizuo he should bring you over more often.”

“I brought him now,” Shizuo protests. “He’s really busy with work.”

“I’m always delighted to make time for Shizuo’s family,” Izaya says, his voice as smooth and polished as his smile. When he glances back over his shoulder at Shizuo his eyes are dark, his mouth curving up onto amusement that doesn’t make it any farther than quirking at the corner of his lips. “You should have told me your mother wanted to see me, Shizu-chan, of course I would have made time to visit.”

Shizuo doesn’t even bother giving verbal protest to this absolutely blatant lie. He just gives Izaya a flat look, staring back at the other until Izaya’s mouth twists up sharp at the corner and his eyes sparkle with the bright edge of true laughter; Izaya ducks his head, drawing his hand back from Shizuo’s mother to lift and cover the sincerity of the smile at his mouth, and Shizuo looks back to meet the smile on his mother’s face that does nothing at all to cover up the level attention in the gaze she’s giving him, the unwavering focus behind her eyes that makes her expression an uncanny match for Kasuka’s over her shoulder. Izaya’s head is still ducked, his shoulders still tense on the amusement he’s trying to fight back; and Shizuo takes a breath, and feels the warmth of the air filling all the space of his lungs, and lets it out along with the last of his hesitation.

“Mom,” he says, feeling the vibration of his voice against the inside of his chest as he so rarely notices it, as if the importance of his words are giving them weight and form far greater than what they usually have. His mother’s smile smooths into neutral attention, her gaze comes into even sharper focus on him, and Shizuo can feel honesty pressing into careful clarity against his tongue. “I’d like you to meet Orihara Izaya.” He lifts his free hand to gesture to Izaya still at his side, to their clasped hands illuminated by the glow of the living room lamp, to everything that Izaya has always been to him, to everything they have always been to each other. “As my boyfriend.”

Izaya makes a faint sound at Shizuo’s side, a tiny, weak whimper like he’s suddenly lost his ability to hold air properly in his lungs; his fingers clench hard around Shizuo’s hand, his fingernails digging in so hard Shizuo thinks they might leave bruises. But Shizuo doesn’t turn to look at him, because his mother’s eyes are crinkling at the corners, the whole of her expression going tense on the emotion she’s holding back from spilling out over her lips.

“I see,” she says, and looks to Izaya again. Izaya’s gone perfectly still where he stands; Shizuo can’t even hear the sound of the other’s breathing in spite of how close they are. He wouldn’t be surprised if Izaya isn’t breathing at all. Shizuo’s mother runs her gaze over Izaya, taking him in as if she’s never seen him before; and then she sighs, and ducks her head, and Izaya’s exhale whimpers into a startled spill of sound as Shizuo’s mother starts to smile.

“I’m happy to formally meet you,” she says, and then she lifts her head, and her smile is breaking all across the familiar shape of her face to turn her expression bright and glowing like the sun. “You’ve always made Shizuo very happy, you know.” Shizuo can feel his cheeks flare into heat, some combination of self-consciousness and happiness rising to burn hot across the whole of his face; but at his side Izaya’s eyes are going wide with shock, his mouth is parting on voiceless surprise, and whatever Shizuo may be feeling in himself, it all falls to unimportance compared to the shock wiping Izaya’s expression utterly blank.

“I’m happy you two finally decided to tell us,” Shizuo’s mother goes on, glancing sideways to encompass Shizuo in the warmth of her smile as well. “I thought for a time you wanted to keep things quiet, but Kasuka always said you weren’t officially dating.”

“They weren’t,” Kasuka says, his voice falling in perfect sync with Shizuo’s “We weren’t.” Izaya doesn’t say anything. Shizuo isn’t sure Izaya remembers how to speak. His mother looks to him, her eyebrows raising very slightly, and Shizuo feels his face go warmer as he tries to clear his throat back to coherency. “Not before Christmas.”

Shizuo’s mother heaves a sigh and shakes her head. “Well. At least you got here eventually.” She turns back to Izaya still staring blankly at her, her smiling going wider until it crinkles in the corners of her eyes.

“Really,” she says. “I’m so happy for you both.” And then she’s reaching out to wrap Izaya into the warm weight of a hug, and Izaya’s breath is rushing out of him in a shocked exhale Shizuo can clearly hear. Izaya’s fingers flex in his, his grip tensing like he’s trying to find a grounding point; and Shizuo tightens his grip back to squeeze gentle comfort against Izaya’s hand. Izaya’s glance slides sideways, his gaze catching Shizuo’s over Shizuo’s mother’s shoulder; then he looks away, turning his head down to cast his features into shadow again while Shizuo’s mother is still pressing maternal affection into the hunched uncertainty of his shoulders.

It doesn’t make a difference, in any case. Shizuo still has Izaya’s hand in his, can feel the adrenaline of stress easing from the other’s body telegraphed in the flex of his fingers in Shizuo’s hold, and he had enough time to see the strain at Izaya’s eyes melting into surprised warmth, had a heartbeat’s worth of the give of Izaya’s mouth curving up on one of those rare, soft smiles.

Even after years, Shizuo is sure he’s never seen anything so beautiful.


	60. Rumored

Shinra’s apartment is a scene of absolute chaos when Shizuo and Izaya arrive.

This isn’t the default case. Shizuo doesn’t spend anything like as much time at Shinra and Celty’s apartment as he does at Izaya’s, but those few visits he’s made for medical attention or to share a meal indicate that the space is usually tidy and more or less reserved; even the hotpot party they came for a few weeks ago stayed low-key except for Shinra’s persistent complaining about Celty’s established rules regarding his effusive displays of affection. Shizuo was anticipating something similarly calm this evening, even with the promise of nearly a dozen people in attendance at the party; but the discussion from inside the apartment is loud enough that it can be heard all the way at the elevator doors, and it only gets louder as Shizuo and Izaya approach.

“Are you sure it was tonight?” Izaya asks as they draw to a stop in front of the door. “Maybe you mixed up Kasuka’s movie screening with the indoor bullfighting night.”

“I checked your calendar,” Shizuo informs him, glancing sideways to look at Izaya as he lifts a hand to knock hard against the door. “If it’s the wrong day it’s because you wrote it down wrong.”

“It can’t possibly be the wrong day,” Izaya says smoothly. “It must be Shinra’s mistake.”

Shizuo’s mouth tugs on a grin. “Because you don’t make mistakes?”

“That’s right.” Izaya tips his head to look sideways up at Shizuo from under the shadow of his hair; his lips are tight against each other, his whole expression strained as he tries to hold back amusement from breaking over his face. “You should know this by now, I’m a paragon of perfection.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo agrees calmly. “Of course. I know you’re perfect.” Izaya’s head turns towards him, Izaya’s eyes go wide on surprise, and Shizuo grins down at him as the other’s cheeks start to color over with self-consciousness. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years. I’m glad you finally started listening to me.” Izaya blinks hard, visibly struggling for some kind of coherent response as his face darkens into a true blush, and Shizuo laughs and reaches out to catch his arm around the other’s shoulders. Izaya turns in against him, pressing his face hard against Shizuo’s shoulder to hide the color suffusing his face; when he speaks the words come out muffled against the fabric of the other’s vest. “I thought I was supposed to be a brat.”

“You are,” Shizuo tells him, tightening his arm and ducking his head to press his nose against Izaya’s hair and breathe in the spicy bite that clings to all the other’s skin, to fill his lungs with the smell that has become a familiar comfort instead of an impossible temptation over the last several weeks. “A perfect brat.” Izaya huffs against his vest, capitulating to a laugh as he takes a breath to reply, and then the door comes open, and Shinra is chirping “Hello, hello!” at them both almost before he’s properly seen them. “Glad you could make it! Oh, am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Izaya says at once, pushing away from Shizuo’s shoulder and turning back to face Shinra himself. “Nothing. What on earth are you _doing_ in there?”

“What?” Shinra looks back over his shoulder, as if he’s only just noticed the continuing roar of sound coming from behind him; it’s two separate voices, Shizuo can make out the distinction now, a man and a woman speaking at such high speed and with such emotional volume that he can barely parse the individual words as speech at all. “Oh! That’s Kadota’s group. He brought two new friends to join us for the screening, they say they’re major fans of the source material.”

Shizuo blinks. “There’s source material?”

“None worth reading,” Izaya tells him. “Are you going to invite us in, Shinra, or shall we stand out here until your neighbors complain of the noise?”

“Of course, of course!” Shinra steps aside, sweeping an arm towards the chatter and warmth inside the apartment. “Come in!” There’s a whole array of shoes in the entryway, two pairs toppled one over the other and another three in somewhat better array at the edge of the tile; Kasuka’s are there too, carefully lined up in the farthest corner of the entryway where they’re least likely to be knocked aside by a careless footstep. Shizuo toes his off alongside his brother’s, working them free while Izaya has already slipped his own off and is standing waiting for him; and then he steps into the apartment, and follows Izaya to meet the crowd of people arrayed across the couch and both chairs in the living room.

“Karisawa Erika,” Shinra says, gesturing towards the woman leaning in over the arm of the one of the chairs to debate hotly with the young man perching at the edge of the couch. “And Yumasaki Walker. They’re friends with Kadota. Karisawa, Yumasaki, this is Heiwajima Shizuo and Orihara Izaya.”

“The fabled brother!” Yumasaki cheers, which answers the question of whether Shinra has yet mentioned Shizuo’s relationship to Kasuka, and “The _lovers_ ,” Karisawa says with audible delight under her voice. “We’ve heard _all_ about you.”

Shizuo can feel his face heat, can feel embarrassment burning to scarlet across his cheeks. Izaya glances back at him, his mouth tense on the threat of laughter again, but when he speaks his voice is perfectly calm and as casual as if this is a regular subject of conversation with people he’s only just met. “You’re quite well-informed. Who do we have to thank as the source of your information?”

“No one,” Karisawa says, and Yumasaki jumps in as if they’re a single entity sharing control of two bodies: “Everyone knows about the informant of Ikebukuro and his bartender bodyguard. They say you’re the two people in town no one should pick a fight with.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and Shizuo doesn’t have to look at him to hear the smile tugging taut at the corners of his mouth. “Who would have expected the gossip to be so accurate?”

“They say you’ve been dating since high school,” Karisawa says, leaning so far forward out of her chair Shizuo thinks she’s in some danger of toppling forward entirely. “Is that true too?”

“No comment,” Izaya says, his voice purring over enough satisfaction to imply an answer to the question all on its own.

“Not true,” Kadota says from the end of the couch, where he’s considering the DVD case of the movie providing the excuse for the gathering in the first place. “They’ve only been officially together since Christmas.”

Karisawa blinks. “What?” She looks from Kadota back to Izaya, from Izaya to Shizuo and back again. “I’m sure there were rumors about them being an item before then.”

“Ah, well,” Izaya says, his voice a little brighter and sharper than it was before. He’s not looking at Shizuo anymore, isn’t actually looking at anyone; he’s sliding his phone out of his pocket instead, bracing the weight of it against his fingers as he frowns sudden attention at the locked screen. “Rumors can’t be trusted. You never know where those come from in the first place.”

“But I’m sure I--”

“Let it go,” Kadota sighs. “I swear, they weren’t together until a few weeks ago.”

“Weren’t we going to put a movie on?” Izaya asks the screen of his phone. “Or did the plans change without my knowledge?”

“Yes, the movie!” Shinra calls from where he’s returning from the kitchen with a tray of drinks, Celty following in his wake with her everpresent yellow helmet firmly in place and her arms full of an improbable number of snacks and candy. Shinra sets the tray on the coffee table, and Yumasaki leaps to his feet to lay claim to the majority of the bags of food, and Shizuo considers the few spaces left available on the furniture and decides that the floor alongside the couch is likely to be as comfortable as trying to fit into what gaps remain. The other chair is still vacant, offering more comfort for Izaya if he chooses to take it; but he doesn’t so much as look up from his phone before folding elegantly to his knees alongside Shizuo and turning so he can lean back against the other’s shoulder. Shinra ends up in the chair, gesturing invitingly to urge Celty to join him as she comes back from dimming the lights, but she claims the empty spot left on the couch to the sound of Shinra’s despairing groans. Shizuo grins into the dim, and shifts against the couch, and as the credits of the movie come up across the screen Izaya taps his phone to silent and slides it back into his pocket before leaning in to press his shoulders against the support of Shizuo’s chest. He’s looking at the screen, his attention fixed deliberately on the glow of the bright lettering against the dark background; he’s very close, his hair so near Shizuo’s mouth skims the strands when he turns his head in towards the other.

Shizuo clears his throat, very softly, so it will be lost to the low drumroll of the opening of the film for everyone except Izaya; Izaya doesn’t turn his head, but Shizuo can feel his shoulders tense under his shirt, can feel the tension straining up the whole of the other’s spine.

“Rumors, huh,” he murmurs, fitting the words so close against Izaya’s hair they’re almost more a kiss than speech. “I wonder who could have started those?”

“Who knows,” Izaya says, his voice so quiet Shizuo can barely pick out the murmur of it from the hum of sound coming from the television speakers. “That sort of thing can start from nothing at all, Shizu-chan.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. “Weird that they never made it back to you in your information collecting.”

“Very,” Izaya says. “Are you planning to keep up this interrogation, or are you going to watch your little brother’s first feature film?”

“I’m watching,” Shizuo says, but he delays for another moment longer, long enough to duck his head so he can bump against Izaya’s. Izaya shifts fractionally, his head turning so he can look sideways through his lashes at Shizuo, and Shizuo presses the briefest of kisses just against the line of Izaya’s jaw, an inch back from the damp of his lips. He can feel the sudden tension of the other’s mouth pulling on a smile, can hear the tiny huff of an exhale Izaya makes as Shizuo pulls away, and if anyone notices Shizuo fitting his arm around Izaya’s waist or Izaya settling his hand atop Shizuo’s, no one says anything about it.

Other than Kasuka’s performance as the title character, the movie’s not great; the CGI is awkward and the fight scenes clumsily choreographed. But the audience around them is happy to offer alternately enthused or amused commentary, depending on the source, and Shizuo is more than content to stay where he is, with the sound of his friends’ voices spilling over him and Izaya warm against the curve of his arm.

There’s nothing he likes more than spending time with the people he loves.


	61. Aloud

Shizuo likes cooking for Izaya. He likes cooking in general, has ever since high school, when he spent evenings hovering over his mother making the regular trio of lunchboxes until he was putting together as much of them as she was, with her smiling approval to ease any uncertainty he had in his cooking ability. By now he’s confident in his skill in producing any number of dishes and even inventing recipes for things he’s never made before, and there’s a satisfaction to cooking for Izaya especially, to knowing that the food he’s creating will be taking the place of the dinners out or convenience store snacks Izaya seems to rely on at all other times. And there’s something domestic about cooking in Izaya’s home, about working his way through the kitchen with as much comfortable familiarity as if it’s his mother’s, as if he’s lived here all his life. It makes Shizuo smile over the counter, makes his movements easy with simple pleasure, until even Izaya calling “Hurry up,” from the other side of the room is more pleasant than otherwise. “Aren’t you almost done yet?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, glancing up from the butter he’s melting into a frying pan to see Izaya watching his computer screen with a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth to belie any claim to frustration or anger. “Cooking takes time.”

“I’m starving,” Izaya groans, leaning to weight his chin against the support of his hand as he clicks through something on the screen before him. “I’m likely to fade away where I sit if you don’t provide me with sustenance soon, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo snorts. “You are not.” The pan is steaming to heat, the butter hissing and melting into bubbling liquid to coat the surface. He reaches out for the bowl of eggs he has set out on the counter and lifts the handle of the pan to hold it just off the heat of the burner. “You didn’t finish breakfast until an hour and a half ago, you can’t be that ravenous yet.”

“I have a fast metabolism.” Izaya is purring the words from across the room, the satisfaction on his tone audible enough to turn the mundane topic into something sultry with suggestion. “Don’t you have anything to tide me over?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “It’s almost done,” he says, pouring the eggs over the hot pan to hiss and sizzle their way to solidity. “I thought you said you had work to do.”

“I do.” Shizuo glances up from the pan; Izaya’s looking at his screen still, his mouth curving at the corner into a smile that Shizuo suspects has nothing to do with what’s on the computer in front of him. “I’m very busy and important, Shizuo, not all of us are so lucky to get by in life with just raw strength like you do.”

Shizuo smiles. “You’re ridiculous,” he informs Izaya, his voice turning over to the warmth of affection in his chest as he looks back to check the eggs. “I’m not _getting by_.” The omelette is almost done; Shizuo shifts the pan against the burner, his attention as much on the progress of lunch as it is on the conversation. “I don’t even have a real job.”

“Is keeping me safe not enough work for you?” Izaya asks. “You should have told me you were bored, I would have planned a kidnapping for later this week.”

Shizuo’s whole chest goes tight, his shoulders hunching on the sudden surge of adrenaline that follows even the suggestion of danger in Izaya’s words. “ _No_ ,” he growls, sparing a frown for the other’s profile before he pulls the pan off the stove to slide the omelette free. “No, this is perfectly fine. The less you get hurt the happier I am.”

“Aww,” Izaya drawls. When Shizuo looks up from flipping the omelette over onto itself Izaya’s turned away from his computer entirely to turn the full weight of his attention onto the other. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, soft warmth behind the bright of his eyes; when he sees Shizuo looking at him he tips his head to the side and lets his smile curve the wider across his lips. “That was almost sweet, Shizu-chan.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, tasting the familiar nickname turn over on itself until it’s more an endearment on his lips than the insult it originally stood as. He sets the pan back down on a cool burner and picks up the plate instead to bring it across the room to Izaya. “You just like to make me worry.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, sounding no more chastised than he looks. He’s smiling all over his face, his expression as languid and comfortable as the slouch he has in his computer chair; he reaches out to take his plate from Shizuo with both hands, only straightening minimally as he turns to set it alongside his keyboard before going for a bite.

“You shouldn’t eat over the computer,” Shizuo tells him without waiting for the obedience he suspects won’t come. He goes back for his own plate still in the kitchen to bring it to eat at the couch instead; when he turns back around Izaya is watching him, his eyes dark and mouth quirking on amusement as he holds a bite of food clear of the plate. He eats it very deliberately, while leaning as far over the keyboard as he can get, and Shizuo rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh of surrender to this lost cause.

“This is good, Shizu-chan,” Izaya declares while Shizuo is setting his plate down against the coffee table and settling himself into the soft comfort of the couch cushions. When he looks up Izaya’s attention is fixed on the plate in front of him, his focus devoted to working through the precise motions of taking another bite of food. “If the personal bodyguard route doesn’t work out for you you could always make a profession out of being a live-in cook.”

“Right,” Shizuo scoffs. “No one’s so anxious for ramen and omurice that they’d have someone live with them just to do their cooking.”

“I would.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes as he pulls a bite free from his omelette, his reply forming itself from the autopilot that comes with years of banter. “Yeah, except you can just take advantage of me whenever I’m…”

 _Visiting_ , is what he’s going to say. But his voice goes silent as he opens his mouth for the word, because the shape of it runs up hard against the echo of his words: _they’d have someone live with them_ , the offhand sound of them suddenly ringing like a struck bell in his head. Shizuo had been joking, had been teasing without thinking about the implication behind the words, but Izaya’s tone wasn’t teasing, Izaya’s words were too quick to be--and he looks up, and Izaya looks down, ducking his chin over the plate of food in front of him with a motion so hurried it undoes any claim to casualness he might have had.

“Wait,” Shizuo says, staring across the room at the angle of Izaya’s head, at the color starting to spread across the other’s cheeks. _Live with them_. _I would_. _I’m visiting_. “Izaya.” His heart is pounding hard in his chest, he can feel every thud rush warm through his veins like another point of certainty for the conclusion his mind has formed around the structure of Izaya’s words. _I would_. His plate hits the table, his attention to his meal entirely abandoned in favor of blinking shock at Izaya, at the shadowed flush across the other’s cheeks, at the strain hunching across his shoulders like confirmation that Shizuo’s assumption is the correct one. “Are you asking me--”

“Yes,” Izaya says, immediately, his voice cutting sharp over the hesitant weight of Shizuo’s. “I am. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

Shizuo doesn’t. He can hear the words as clearly as if Izaya has given them voice, as if they’re hanging in the air between them: _move in with me_ , as if Shizuo needs to give his affirmative, as if this isn’t the culmination of everything he has dreamed of since he was in middle school. It’s absurd, that Izaya needs to hear his agreement spoken aloud, ridiculous that he can’t pick certainty out of all the thousands of tells that Shizuo leaves around him with every night that he stays over and every morning that he arrives before Izaya has finished making his coffee. But it’s so _Izaya_ , it’s so perfectly like him to sidestep the question in the first place, to offer half-statements and implications instead of a direct query, to be tensing in a panic waiting for Shizuo’s reply as if there’s the faintest chance of refusal, as if Shizuo’s entire being doesn’t long to be as close to Izaya as he can be for every moment of his existence. Shizuo’s heart aches, his whole body straining to encompass the warmth in his veins, the adoration in his chest, the weight of affection too much to be borne in silence; and then Izaya lifts his head, his eyes dark with hesitant hope, and Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him at once, and he says what Izaya needs to hear.

“Izaya.” The name is warm in his throat, sweet on his tongue; Shizuo cradles the edges of the consonants against his lips, presses the weight of the vowels against the inside of his chest. His mind whispers, offering words so often repeated they have become a silent mantra for Shizuo’s life; and Shizuo takes a breath, and gives them voice at last. “I love you.”

Izaya’s eyes go wide, his mouth falls open. The flush across his cheeks drains to the white of shock for a moment, and then comes back again with interest, flaming to crimson so bright it spreads all the way across Izaya’s face and out to his hairline. “That’s.” He blinks hard, his focus visibly shaken; his lips press tight together, he swallows roughly. When he speaks again his voice is trembling, the words shaking in his throat like he’s lost all sense of stability for his world. “Not pertinent to the conversation, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo’s lips twitch, pulling themselves into a smile formed entirely of all the warmth pressing against the inside of his chest. “Really.”

“Yes.” Izaya’s forehead is creasing with effort, his mouth still tight as he fights for some kind of composure. He’s blinking too fast, like his eyes won’t quite come into focus or like he’s trying to hold back the weight of tears. “I’m in the middle of a job negotiation with you, you’re--”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says again, and Izaya’s words stall to instant silence, his lips parted around the shape of speech gone voiceless as he stares at Shizuo. Shizuo has never seen him look so beautiful. He’s never loved him so much. “Shut up.”

Izaya closes his mouth. He stares at Shizuo for another long moment, his eyes still wide with the first impact of his shock; and then he ducks his head, and braces a hand against the edge of the table, and pushes himself carefully to his feet. He moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s not certain of his footing or can’t quite trust the support of his legs as he collects his plate and comes around the edge of the computer desk, and Shizuo stays where he is and watches Izaya come to him.

It’s a careful process. Izaya works through every motion with deliberate attention as if it’s demanding his entire focus: walking across the space to the couch, setting the weight of his plate just alongside Shizuo’s, turning to settle himself precisely on the cushion next to the other. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Shizuo’s gaze, but Shizuo is ready, and he’s reaching out as soon as Izaya is sitting next to him, lifting his arm to wrap around the narrow width of Izaya’s shoulders as he leans in to press the warmth of his smile against the dark of the other’s hair.

“Yes, I’ll move in with you,” he says, feeling the words purring over affection in his chest and going warm and soft against his lips in Izaya’s hair. “I spend all my time here anyway.”

“There’s only one bedroom,” Izaya says, his voice strained and brittle with the tremor he isn’t letting free. “I’ll make you sleep on the couch if you keep me awake.”

Shizuo smiles. “You’re the one who never sleeps,” he points out, tasting the shadowy tang of Izaya’s skin at his lips with each word like a foretaste of the days to come, like a promise of uncounted nights with Izaya in his arms, an infinity of dawns spent stirring to consciousness with Izaya next to him, mornings and afternoons and evenings spilling one over the other with no need for separation, with nothing to keep him from spending weeks, years, a lifetime at Izaya’s side.

Izaya’s hand lifts, his fingers brushing against the tangle of blond hair across Shizuo’s forehead; his touch is tentative, the contact uncertain as if he doubts his right to offer it, but Shizuo tips his head in immediate capitulation to the minimal force, groaning audible appreciation against Izaya’s neck as he nuzzles in closer against the other’s hair. Izaya’s touch drags across his scalp, his fingers winding into a hold against the waves of Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo can hear the breath the other takes, can feel the thud of Izaya’s heart pounding fast on anticipation just against his lips. “I love you too, Shizuo.”

It’s not a surprise, exactly. Izaya’s been giving expression to the sentiment in a thousand different ways over a thousand days, spelling out the meaning in a Morse code of offhand touches and unspoken implications and shadowed glances that Shizuo long ago learned how to decrypt. But it’s different to hear it, to have the sound of the words shaped by Izaya’s lips and thrumming in Izaya’s voice, as if by speaking it aloud Izaya is printing the certainty of it right into Shizuo’s veins, as if he’s leaving the weight of his fingerprints on the pressure aching against the too-small space of Shizuo’s ribcage.

Shizuo has never been so happy to finally be at home.


	62. Granted

Shizuo wakes up slowly. This isn’t always a luxury he gets -- often he’s pulled to consciousness by the beeping of Izaya’s alarm on the far side of the bed, or by the _ping_ of a notification on the other’s phone, if Izaya didn’t silence it before falling asleep the night before. Even on those days there’s no crisis in the city and no meeting to travel to, Shizuo more often than not awakens to fingernails trailing ticklish pressure against the back of his shoulders, or teeth nipping against his ear, or sometimes just to Izaya pushing him over onto his back so the other can replace the warmth of the blankets with the heat of his body pressing flush to Shizuo’s. Shizuo doesn’t have any reason to complain about the alarm, and less for the inevitable result of Izaya waking before he does; but there’s a pleasure in stirring to consciousness over the course of several minutes, to feeling the warm glow of morning sunlight against his eyelids well before he has occasion to open them and blink his way to full alertness. There’s the comfort of a blanket weighting over his legs, and the heat of bare skin pressing close against his, and when Shizuo finally does shift himself into awareness it’s to find the sheets tangled, and the sunlight warm, and Izaya breathing slow with sleep in bed next to him.

Shizuo doesn’t move for a long span of minutes. There’s no hurry to get up, nothing he needs to get done and nothing he’d prefer to do than linger in bed appreciating the rare opportunity to see Izaya sleeping. Usually the other comes to bed late and rises early; if Shizuo wants him to get a full night’s sleep he has to pull Izaya down himself, pin him to the bed under the weight of his arm and the persuasion of kisses until Izaya will capitulate to the necessity of resting through the span of the night. Last night had been easier than usual; Shizuo was halfway through his evening shower when Izaya had slipped into the bathroom and pressed himself close against Shizuo’s damp skin, and between starting things in the shower and finishing them in the bedroom Izaya had been half-asleep by the time Shizuo had sighed himself into the expectation of the rest to come. He remembers the weight of a hand settling at his hip, the warmth of a breath sighing against his shoulder, and then Shizuo had fallen into unconsciousness as fast as Izaya did, leaving the hours of night to pass unobserved while they lingered in the comfort of each other’s company.

Izaya didn’t move much over the course of the night. On the rare occasions Shizuo is up late he’ll come into the bedroom to find Izaya frowning through restless dreams at the edge of the bed, the sheets kicked to a hopeless tangle and all the pillows but one shoved to the corner of the bed or entirely onto the floor. But he sleeps deeply when Shizuo’s there, barely stirring and then only when Shizuo turns over or shifts his arm, and he’s perfectly still now, with no motion but the slow rise and fall of his chest to mark out the pattern of his sleep-slow breathing. He’s ended up on his back, one hand draped over his stomach and the other reaching out to fit under Shizuo’s shoulder; his head is turned in, too, as if he was trying to press closer for a kiss even in the grip of unconsciousness. Shizuo’s lying half on top of him, his arm thrown out to fall heavy around the curve of the other’s waist; he can feel the shift of Izaya’s breathing under his hold, if he thinks about it, can make out the faint sound of the other’s inhales coming a few inches away from his mouth. Shizuo blinks, his focus still slow with the lingering effects of sleep, and for a moment he stays as he is and just looks at Izaya in front of him.

It’s strange to see Izaya asleep, to see the usual tension of his expression entirely given over to the unconscious relaxation of rest. Shizuo is used to strain at the corners of Izaya’s eyes, like a threat always ready to tighten into the immediacy of danger during any one of the multitude of negotiations they attend; sometimes the tension clings to his mouth instead, working on the bite of a grin or the sharp edges of a laugh. Even when it’s just the two of them there’s always something, some shocked softness behind Izaya’s stare or the curve of startled affection at his lips. Shizuo can feel his blood warm, can feel his breathing catch faster at the thought of the way Izaya sometimes looks when Shizuo is leaning over him or drawing the weight of his touch over warm skin, when the almost-pained stress of anticipation gives way all at once to a wide-eyed gasp of pleasure to match the shuddering relief that runs through the rest of Izaya’s body. But this is different than all of that; this is just Izaya, his features left a blank canvas by the pull of sleep so deep even the effect of dreams don’t make their way onto his expression. His lips are parted on the soft rhythm of his breathing, his lashes are laid to feathery darkness against the angle of his cheekbones; there’s no trace of the shadows under them that were such a regularity in high school, no indication of the bruises from past-tense violence at jaw or hairline that used to linger in middle school. There’s just pale smoothness, a tracery of blue veins laid underneath skin so pale it’s nearly translucent, and the shadow of Izaya’s lashes, the dark weight of them tangling with a few stray strands of black hair. He looks perfect, looks beautiful, and even Shizuo’s desire to let him go on sleeping isn’t enough to keep him from capitulating to the temptation to lift his hand from Izaya’s waist and draw his fingertips carefully through the fall of the other’s hair lying close against his cheek. The strands catch against his fingertips, draw back to let the sunlight skim across the other’s face, and Izaya stirs, his forehead creasing and mouth tensing for a moment as he shifts.

“Shizu-chan?” he mumbles, his voice so sleep-heavy Shizuo can better make sense of the sound from the way Izaya’s lips form around it than from actually hearing the syllables.

“Yeah.” Shizuo slides Izaya’s hair back behind his ear and lets his fingers trail down against the curve of the other’s neck. “You can keep sleeping if you want.”

“Mm.” Izaya turns his head without opening his eyes, tipping himself in towards Shizuo’s touch like he’s getting more comfortable. “You woke me up.”

“I know.” Shizuo lets his fingers wander down Izaya’s neck to the line of his shoulder, presses his thumb to the dip of the other’s collarbone. “Sorry.”

“You ought to be,” Izaya tells him. He leans closer under the weight of Shizuo’s fingers, his whole body angling forward as if he’s melting into the support of the other; his forehead presses to Shizuo’s shoulder, his breath gusts warm across Shizuo’s chest. “I was having such a good dream too.”

“I see.” Shizuo’s hand slides down the line of Izaya’s back, his fingertips trace out the pattern of the other’s spine just under his skin; Izaya arches into the contact, his shoulders flexing to press closer to Shizuo’s touch as the other’s hand moves lower. Shizuo can taste licorice whispering against his tongue and glowing inside his chest when he inhales. “I really am sorry, then.”

“Yes,” Izaya says against the side of his neck. “How are you ever going to make it up to me?”

Shizuo’s mouth tugs on a smile, his fingers slide down across the curve of Izaya’s back. Izaya arches in against him, his hand coming up so his fingers can catch at Shizuo’s hip; Shizuo can feel the friction of the other’s touch as heat glowing bright under his skin.

“I don’t know,” he says, and lets his arm curve around Izaya entirely so he can steady his hold against the line of the other’s back to brace them close together. “Do you have any suggestions for me?”

“I do,” Izaya purrs against Shizuo’s shoulder. “Several, in fact.” He lifts his head to look up at Shizuo against him; his eyes are dark, his lashes heavy. When he smiles the edges of it catch bright against the color of his eyes, bringing out detail from the shadows enough to steal all Shizuo’s breath at once. “It was a _very_ detailed dream, after all.”

“Was it,” Shizuo says. “Will you be able to remember all the details of it?”

“I think I can manage.” Izaya tells him. “You just have to do what I say and I’m sure I’ll be satisfied.”

“Ah.” Shizuo leans in closer, hard enough to topple Izaya over onto his back across the bed; Izaya goes willingly, keeping his hold at Shizuo’s hip to pull the other in over him. The sunlight spilling through the drawn blinds glows in the air, warming the sheets and bringing out flecks of scarlet from the shadows of Izaya’s gaze on Shizuo’s features. Shizuo’s smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, urging his lips into a curve he couldn’t fight back even if he cared to try, and underneath him Izaya’s smiling too, the expression soft against his lips as he lifts a hand into Shizuo’s hair and winds his fingers up into the pale strands. Shizuo ducks his head to the force and lets his gaze wander across the familiar beauty of Izaya’s features in the morning light. “Where do we start?”

“That’s easy,” Izaya says, and his hand slides in against the back of Shizuo’s neck, his fingers spreading wide across the other’s skin. “Kiss me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo looks at Izaya -- at the bright heat in his eyes, at the light illuminating the pale of unbruised skin, at the happiness curving his mouth into softness -- and he smiles, and leans in, and obeys.


End file.
